


Creatures of Middle Earth

by Nyrah, saint2sinners



Series: Creatures of Middle Earth [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Dwarf/Hobbit Sex, F/M, Female Bilbo, Fili and Kili wise_assery, First story arc, Hobbit, Hobbit Culture, Hobbits, M/M, Magical Bilbo Baggins, Nobody tell Glorfindel, Not abandoned! Just slow to update, Paranoid Rangers are paranoid, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating will change, Romance, Slow Burn, Stormcloud Oakenshield, Thorin's always the last to know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5122505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyrah/pseuds/Nyrah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/saint2sinners/pseuds/saint2sinners
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yavanna created hobbits to bring blessings and bounty to the creatures of Middle Earth. However, after centuries of isolation in the Shire, most have forgotten almost everything about the halflings, especially how those blessings touched each of the races and what the presence of a hobbit did to the beings of Middle Earth. With Bilbo Baggins crossing the world to serve as the fourteenth member of the Company of Erebor, the races are about to be reminded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of a planned three part story.  
> With a huge amount of thanks to my house mate, editor and co-author Nyrah who helps me build the world and plot lines for the story arc and the characters. 
> 
> Each chapter has a theme song I will post but the below is the theme for this first story arc as a whole. It inspired this story.
> 
> Please note that while this story is currently rated G the rating will increase as we progress. Future chapters will contain graphic depictions of sex, violence and incidences of rape.
> 
> So if you're reading and enjoying and feel like it, you can buy is a coffee http://ko-fi.com/saintandnyrah  
> Not required but would be appreciated.
> 
>  

In a hole under a hill there lived a hobbit.

The hobbit in question had been born in that hole and expected –after a long and stable life - to die there. It was a very proper hobbit hole, built for love and made for family. And although only one bed housed one hobbit, its occupant wasn’t idle enough to be lonely. The very proper hobbit instead worked hard to ensure a wealth of welcome filled its halls, stocked it with good food and better company. The hole was called Bag-End and many would argue it was the best in the Shire. They would agree that irrespective of a tumultuous and Tookish youth, the one who lived there now as an adult did so with respectable proprietary and predictability, and in doing so could be said to be the soul of a very proper Baggins.

Books on distant lands and illicit adventures were tucked away in a full study where no one else would see them. Maps and paintings of faraway places hung in pristine alignment along hallway walls. Pantry shelves sagged, heavy with food, waiting for the kitchen’s attention, and a comfortably cushioned garden bench called to any lingering body and packed pipe that happened to be passing by. Merry voices often kept at bay the lingering silence of empty rooms, and everyone knew it was always a good meal and good fortune to be invited to Bag-End.

Predictable, comfortable, safe and secure: a life many people of many races would give anything to achieve. All in all it was a peaceful sort of paradise that made up that hole under that hill. It seemed it would last forever. Perhaps it would have, until drifting in between rings of smoke and childhood dreams, there came the Wizard.

The Baggins who had built Bag-End and now lay under warm soil and fertile fields, would have been mortified that the solid green door would fail to keep troublesome adventures, dangerous journeys and meddlesome Big Folk safely away from his only child. Bag-End’s neighbors would never know of the unexpected party, unwelcome bargains, strife and starvation, laughter and terror and bonds beyond blood. Gossips couldn’t even conceive the journeys and battles and wars biding the time between events that shook the world outside the green valley. Market whispers fell short of flights across land and sky, jewels, unimaginable wealth and a flying furnace with wings. Fondest dreams would barely touch on love matched only by the hurt that hearts could cause each other. There would be fang and tooth and claw and more at stake than even a dozen stones of starlight.

And in the middle of it all: small, unassuming and unremarkable - as all but one of the Valar believed them to be- would be a gentlehobbit who was once of proper and respectable means. A hobbit who would become less, and more, than ever thought possible, and would carry more in one life than any creature of Middle Earth should.

No matter where the story would end, no matter what the trials that awaited, no matter what the wonders that would linger, it would always have begun the same way: The story started with a hobbit who lived in hole under a hill. Her name was Bilbonny Baggins, but she’d always be known as ‘Bilbo.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skillet  
> "Fire And Fury"  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iz8bXp_3Ykw
> 
> Every brick and every stone  
> Of the world we made will come undone.  
> If I... if I can't feel you here with me.  
> In my sleep I call your name  
> But when I wake I need to touch your face  
> 'Cause I... I need to feel you here with me.
> 
> You can stop the aching  
> 'Cause you’re the one I need.
> 
> I will burn, I will burn for you  
> With fire and fury. Fire and fury.  
> My heart hurts, my heart hurts for you.  
> Your love burns within me with fire and fury.
> 
> If I freeze you are the flame.  
> You melt my heart, I'm washed in your rain.  
> I know you’ll always have the best of me.  
> Destiny’s got a hold on me.  
> Guess I never knew love like love knows me  
> 'Cause I... I need to feel you here with me.
> 
> I will burn, I will burn for you  
> With fire and fury. Fire and fury.  
> My heart hurts, my heart hurts for you.  
> Your love burns within me with fire and fury.
> 
> Let it all fall down to dust.  
> Can’t break the two of us.  
> We are safe in the strength of love.  
> You can stop the aching  
> 'Cause you’re the one I need.
> 
> I will burn, I will burn for you  
> With fire and fury. Fire and fury.  
> My heart hurts, my heart hurts for you.  
> Your love burns within me.  
> It burns, it burns, it burns, it burns.
> 
> Your love burns within me with fire and fury.


	2. Stormcloud Oakenshield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has decided to run off with the dwarves. Thorin wishes to avoid Bree. Bilbo... disagrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. This is Nyrah. Saint is committing seppuku in shame at how long this took. 6 weeks, and I had to edit everything in one sitting before she'd bugger off and leave me alone. So, here's the first official chapter. Please leave comments if you care, con-crit is appreciated.  
> The bloody corpse on the floor wants me to tell you that we will touch on the canon, but as she has read the book and seen the movies, she finds the 62nd iteration somewhat tedious. So, kiddies, we're going off-road with this roller-coaster!  
> Enjoy.
> 
> Chapter theme: All Good Things - Angels  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2BCEiXphVzA

Chapter 2

_There were dwarves in the Shire._

It was common enough to see them at the outer market or even in the tavern rooms of the Green Dragon Inn. You would often find them - like the men of Bree - on the fringes of the Shire, where the poorer or simply less respectable hobbits made their way. They were always seeking work, passing through or heading to their shanty homes in Ered Luin. Some were friendly and would be welcomed to the inn with music and song; others were caustic and brisk, seeking coin more than camaraderie from the locals. Others still, large and armed, would never be known as the locals sought nothing of them and allowed them to respond in kind. The Rangers kept a keen eye and the Bolger and his boys would watch the soft green valley just as close. Above all, the land of the Shire itself was very aware of its little residents and jealously guarded their safety; it frequently led many undesirable characters away from the heart of the rolling hills, keeping them to the edges and fields through trickery and subtle confusion of the mind. Today however, the air was charged and whispers swept ahead of even the wind. Rumours wound through the lanes and passed from lip to lip in a mad dash for the nearest virgin ear.

There were  _dwarves_   _in the_   _Shire_.

Lobelia Sackville Baggins, nee Bracegirdle, wouldn’t have given such tall tales any regard, knowing her own gossip to be far more interesting and rooted in  _actual_ truth. At least she wouldn’t have, had she not seen one herself, daring to be bald in public without so much as a head scarf, almost man-tall and growling like a rabid dog as he stalked past the house of Mrs Primrose Harfoot right after a rather lovely tea - good biscuits, fig jam, although drier-than-expected scones, made from an obviously poor attempt at achieving her own famous recipe don’t you know – But a dwarf! In the Shire!

Well, she took herself off to the Bolger immediately, after a quick stop at a fence or two, the market, Mrs Mallory, Mr Timbleruff and three of her nieces who happened to be on the way. Not for her own sake of course, but to spread the word that she and she alone –being that Mrs Primrose is nearly blind and couldn’t have seen as much regardless of what she says - of course could confirm and tell them first before grand stories of invading dwarves coming to ravish them in their beds could take root. Even if said dwarf had looked at her with a rather hungry and near feral desperation which she absolutely ignored, of course, being a proper and married near Baggins, a Sackville Baggins, but Baggins none the less!

In the end the words were spread around the Shire through the afternoon, the evening and all the following day.

The Bolger and his boys chased after the threads of rumour and claims of sightings, searching for tangible evidence. They debated alerting the Rangers that patrolled and protected the borders of their valley, but all agreed it was better to exclude the rough and rugged hunters. Throughout the hills and in any of the great or lesser smials, no solid sign of dwarf could be found.

There was, however, word from some neighbours of Bag-End and the early rising farmers of the nearby fields, of Miss Baggins tearing off across the fields as if her coattails had caught fire, but no real credence was given to this highly improper – and therefore unlikely - behaviour. This changed when they arrived at her hobbit hole to find it sealed up tighter than a mother-in-law’s biscuit tin. Her gardener, Mr Hamfast Gamgee, was found near the back door looking perplexed.  A most unusual note of instruction regarding her gardens and the upcoming season’s care had been messily written and dropped in his mailbox. The Bolger declared it an obvious forgery, as the gentlehobbit was known for her delicate scrawl.

Grandmother Baggins, the matriarch and grand-dame of the entire Baggins clan, was duly informed by her grandson Drogo of his cousin’s disappearance and she demanded to be brought directly to the smial of the Old Took, greatest of the Tuckborough smials. The search intensified as Baggins, Tooks and associated kin joined the Bolger’s boys in the hunt and word was sent to the Brandybuck Hedge, a regular stopping point for the Rangers.

The matter might have been left at that, for a few months at least, before Lobelia started making enquiries - accusations - regarding her cousin-in-law’s obvious abandonment of her estate, had it not been for Primula Brandybuck’s unexpected arrival. She rode in on a cart driven by a man from Bree at a most impolite hour.  The Bolger and the more concerned of the hobbits were sitting down to supper with the Tooks - to maintain their strength of course, as they had explained to the old Took and Grandmother Baggins herself - so that they may continue searching for the invading army and/or missing  _unmarried_  granddaughter.

Several tiny ears and eyes were witness to the arrival even though they should have been abed at least an hour earlier. Later, they were thoroughly scolded for their eavesdropping, of course, but only after reporting on the event and driving the rumours forward faster for yet another day. It had been sensational, those tiny eyes had claimed, as the awfully young and terribly distraught Miss Brandybuck leapt off the cart before it had completely come to a stop and slammed at the door before entering the Took’s smial without even a word of invitation or greeting.

The man in the cart had been given tea and dinner by one of the cousins, after coming out and finding him still there a few minutes later. Primula on the other hand had pushed past the stalwart Drogo Baggins without even the regular foul glare thrown up between them, and had sought out the main dining room and shocked into silence the collective Tooks, Bolgers and Baggins clans by demanding that they all break from dinner entirely and make for Bree in haste order to enact a daring rescue.

_There were dwarves in Bree! And they had kidnapped Bilbo Baggins!_

_XXXXXX_

_Bree was a village, of Men and some hobbits,_  
in Middle-earth located east of the Shire and south of  
Fornost Erain in Eriador.

_XXXXXX_

 

Travelling on a pony, Bilbo decided, was hateful. And Thorin, his-royal-pain-in-the-arse-highness Oaken-whatever, could go stick that right up his royal bloody backside! She was seriously considering whether she would be taking her leave of this smelly, ill-mannered, motley bunch the moment they entered Bree and bugger any contract they tried to wave in her face. She had of course taken many walking holidays, but none of her past experiences, her books or her mother’s stories had prepared her for the reality of traveling with a bunch of unfriendly, unwelcoming and frankly obnoxious dwarves.

Hours of riding and her legs were more raw bruise than skin, her back was in agony and her saddle sores had saddle sores. Not to mention she was starving. She had tried to call a stop for second breakfast or even elevensies earlier, thinking that the dwarves must have forgotten. His royal bastard-self had given her a dressing down about soft living and not treating the expedition like a holiday.

She’d been so surprised that she hadn’t been able to respond to the cutting remark, not used to the harsh response. She’d looked for support from any corner, only to find similar sneers on several of the fiercer looking dwarves or even worse, laughter and mockery at her expense, with them snickering and making jokes in their confounded language.  Bilbo gnawed on her lip at the irritation lingering under her skin at the memory. The rush of humiliation had hurt, and subsequently found her on her pony at the end of the company, forcing back tears. As the sun rose and her stomach began to curl in on itself in hunger, the feeling of hurt began to change with every replay of the morning, mixed in with thought of contracts, nighttime songs and empty pantries. The humiliation slowly fed the embers of the new feeling until a heat of indignation had started to flare up and start growing:

It throbbed in her veins as a steady reminder that she was the daughter of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins. She was master of Bag-End and a strong and capable gentlehobbit; that she had a spark and a fire that at the very least Gandalf, if no one else, could see… herself included.

She lifted her chin, and soldiered on.

A clearing of a throat nearby drew her glare sideways and away from the backs of dwarves riding ahead, surly with her but happy enough to share song and story with each other, it seemed. The large grey hat covered most of his face, but Gandalf gave her the same insipid smile as this morning; that aggravating curl of lip around pipe that seemed to hint that you were not calm and things would improve if you would really just make an attempt to be reasonable. It was a patronizing gesture, she thought resentfully, and it had her hackles up the second she saw it.

Gandalf, the fink, tried to calm her down, explaining that the other races had nowhere near a sensible meal schedule and offered her a bit of breakfast he had set aside for just such an emergency. She’d taken it with a dirty look, wondering why he couldn’t have mentioned this before she’d spoken up and been slapped back into place so spectacularly. If some great and mystical wizardly insight had convinced him of the need to spare her some of his meal, then surely he could have mentioned it before convincing her to undertake this dreadful mistake of a journey.

Gandalf tipped his head and looked ahead again, the silly smile still there, as if he could see her considering taking his “stick” and beaning him in the side of the head just hard enough to remove that complacent smirk, or perhaps boxing the ears of one of the young dwarves who even now brayed at each other like donkeys and kicked out in play. Where was  _their_  reprimand to take the journey more seriously?

Instead, they rode along, all in a winding row like scruffy little ducklings bobbing in their saddles following a swimming rooster. A preening cock who had no idea of left from right without clandestine prompts and occasional awkward crossroad coughs from the old dwarf with the long white beard. Balin, that one she was sure was Balin. He and the bald one with the giant axes, Dwalin… his brother, they’d said? They seemed to spend the most time debating the route with Thorin, Lord of the Prats.

Bilbo huffed again, her pained irritation growing with every dragging, winding mile. It wasn’t as though she lived in these lands, after all. She wouldn’t know her way around every lane and byway. And of course, she’d never ever taken a walking holiday in this  _very_  direction, no! Not in the least! There was no point asking her for the best route or even letting her up front to join in the debate of whether the fork was indeed the one to the Brandywine Bridge or Buckland’s crossing.

 _‘Condescending coxcomb,’_ Bilbo thought sourly.

“Alright then, Mr Boggins?”

And how  _bloody_  hard was it to remember her  _bloody_  last name?

The snickering that accompanied the otherwise reasonable question had her biting back on her initial response as she noticed the horses had begun moving again, leaving her behind.

“Fine thank you. And once again it’s Baggins, not Boggins.  _Baggins_.”

Normally she’d add a word of thanks or take this as a chance to start a conversation, but every brusque comment or call to keep up upon which she’d tried to start building familiarity had been met coldly or rebuffed as the dwarf in question turned away from her, or worse: was called away by a relative. She thought to ignore the rude sniggering to try to find some common ground in this endeavour. There were thirteen bloody dwarves after all. At least one of them had to be willing to speak to her in a friendly manner.

 “Careful Mr Hobbit. Don’t want ta be left behind. This late the wolves would make short work of you an’ that pony.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened briefly, eyeing the gloaming in the trees around them before shaking herself and sitting straighter. The fear of those things that howled in the night was near instinctual now to all those who had lived through the Fell Winter. She turned to the one who had spoken – the one with the hat. Although she couldn’t quite bring herself to hold a jovial tone with him, she at least managed a watery smile. “No fear of that master dwarf. The wolves don’t cross the Brandywine River except for the most severe winters. There hasn’t been one that bad in the Shire since I was a fauntling.”

She looked at the fellow on the brown pony beside her and took a moment trying to remember which one he was. The rhyming names might have played dickens with the memory but it was rather handy for figuring out who belonged with whom in this bunch. Besides, she was a hobbit, and a hobbit who couldn’t remember the names of a dozen people upon first meeting them found themselves lacking party invitations rather quickly.

“Thank you Mr Bofur. I wouldn’t have wanted to be left behind. I’m sure your leader would have found something colourful and majestically pompous to say in that regard.”

His eyes widened a fraction and she bit her lip. So much for polite and friendly. Before she could make apology for the snide add-on to her overture, his dark eyes shut on a bark of sudden laughter. One or two of the others looked back at them, confused at the outburst. The laughter trailed off with a chuckle and the dwarf, under the brim of his floppy hat, gave her a wide grin and a wink. She was surprised to see he didn’t hasten his horse forward to his family but instead remained behind with her.

“No mister needed for the likes of me. Me an’ mine’re just simple men and miners. Not like the King an’ his family. We’re plenty familiar with a bit o’ Nobby colour. Even them Ris are rumoured to have a bit o’ blue blood, if you believe the talk.”

Biblo frowned, perplexed. “Rees?” she dragged the word out doubtfully. “Nobby colour?”

Bofur smiled and clarified cheerfully “Nobility and their fancy ways. An lookit, Dori, Nori an Ori all end in -ree, so they’re the Ri family. Then I’m Bofur, and over there’s Bifur an’ Bombur. We’re the Ur family, see?” He tapped his nose again as if to emphasis his point. “Bofur’ll do just fine if you be wantin’ to get my attention lad, you don’t need ta be throwin’ Mister my way.”

That was another source of confounded bother the wizard had failed to mention before she signed that blasted contract. Gandalf had pulled her back early that morning and in hushed words explained to her in careful detail why everyone kept calling her ‘Mr Boggins- uh, Baggins’ the night before; a mistake she had been far too busy dealing with the threat of broken china and the systematic destruction of her home to correct at the time.

Dwarves, he’d explained in not so many words, were apparently worse than the most old-fashioned of her uncles and were under the assumption that a woman was only fit for birthing babies and being cloistered in safe, secure homesteads. They believed that females were by nature delicate treasures to be protected and kept in comfort at all costs. It was a man’s responsibility to sustain a lifestyle that allowed their cloistered existence. As vital as the wizard had said she was to their quest, should the dwarves discover that she was in fact of the female persuasion, they would insist she be sent home with escort and the journey to Erebor would be delayed, if not fail altogether.

She had wished, harder than she had for the longest time, that her mother had still been alive for that conversation. She would have dragged those dwarves across the coals by their chin hair for daring to insinuate she was less capable of anything just because she was a woman.

The wizard had been adamant that Bilbo was the key to their success, and even more firm in that she could not let a single dwarf discover that she was female. He had of course sprinkled it with that touch of unassuming guilt and duty to the greater good that the man wielded like a chef with a pepper pot: light enough to barely be detected but still adding the perfect kick to the meal. Gandalf and this company were simply lucky to have arrived on a nippy night when her father’s old dressing gown served to better comfort her than her own and that she’d kept her hair short in the current fashion.

She was unlucky that as a fellow ‘man’ she’d been blasted with every fart, coarse joke and crude reference the Shire had ever been exposed to in the last ten years. At least outside of Buckland, but then what could one expect of river folk? So for now she would remain Mr Baggins, binding her breasts and trying to figure out how the hell she was going to bathe or wash her delicates on their journey.

The sigh nearly became a growl when they finally approached the mile marker indicating Bree wasn’t too far ahead. The sun was touching the edge of the treetops and would soon be hidden away behind hill and home. This close to the village of men, one would find the type of scoundrels who enjoyed taking advantage of a traveling hobbit foolish enough to brave the dark places. Then again, Bilbo thought, one could hardly expect the same treatment that a lone hobbit feared to befall a horde of armed dwarves. She almost shuddered with relief when she saw the mile marker clearly indicated for Bree down the left fork. She also saw then that Thorin  _bloody_  Oakenshield… had just turned  _right_.

No one said anything. Even Balin nudged his pony and they began to move away from the safest route out of the Shire, away from the slowly appearing lights on the horizon, away from warm baths, comfortable beds and more than anything: ready prepared hot food. Under her rump, her pony misstepped and she bounced hard against the unyielding pack-saddle.

The dwarves had not really prepared for her or her presence in the company when they arrived, and in leaving in her mad dash she lacked an adequate saddle, travel supplies, her own food to tide her over or intimates that did not involve someone’s dirty pocket as a ‘handkerchief.’

Bilbo took a deep breath, and then another as her father had always taught, before her temper got the best of her. It didn’t help. During her ruminations the dwarves had moved only a little way off the main road of the right fork and had pulled the horses into a small clearing where they began to dismount, chuckling and joking as they stretched weary muscles in the slow creeping dusk.

The clearing was little more than a patch of plush moss and grass a little ways off from the road. It was overgrown in some places and edged by crowding shadows of the firs and pines of the Old Forest. They weren’t close or deep enough into the trees for more than a hint at the barest shiver of unease, but the shiver remained - and grew - as the trees began to swallow the sun. Large enough for the company and dry enough for comfort, the clearing would have been a good site to camp… if Bree wasn’t a stone’s throw away!

Bofur had begun untying his bedroll - something Bilbo did not in fact have - from his saddle, chatting away and calling out to his brother in a jovial voice about water and the night’s meal. The dwarves laughed as Bilbo eyed the edge of the forest and felt the same urge, as all hobbits did, to move forward and disappear between the shadowed leaves and reaching branches calling them home to the heart of Yavanna’s domain in the Old Forest.

There was no sanctuary in those trees though, and hadn’t been for an Age. Bilbo shuddered and thought of what lay beyond the woods in a place that only the Rangers travelled, and what they said befell those who went there. It was a place where you were more likely to become the night’s meal than to eat a night’s meal.

She held her reins tight and tried to puzzle out what the dwarves were doing.  Fili and Kili’s voices flickered on the edge of her awareness, Ori’s sharp cries mixed into their play in the fading light. There wasn’t much time to catch the stalls and shops before they closed, and if they didn’t make for Bree soon enough they’d have to wait for morning to shop before leaving. Something, she was sure, Thorin wouldn’t appreciate.

Even Gandalf had dismounted, needing no more to travel, it seemed, than his infernal pipe. He had already made himself comfortable on a nearby log, his hat pulled low over his eyes. Bilbo was the only one still mounted on her pony, a spry little thing named Myrtle, her back stiff and trying to force her raw legs to move while every other inch of her was pointing out that Bree couldn’t be more than a brisk walk away.

“Master Baggins! We are losing light and would make camp if you would deign to dismount.” Thorin’s hand brushed gently over his pony’s flanks and he gave her a look usually reserved for a stubborn child asking permission to toddle over broken glass and nettles.

The other dwarves chuckled at the drawling lilt in his voice, suggesting falsely that they awaited her pleasure. He turned his back on her, following Dwalin to where Gloin – the stocky orange-bearded fellow, less fat than the other orange-bearded fellow - was already gathering the ingredients needed for the night’s campfire. Balin pulled a roll of parchment, a map she guessed, from his saddlebag and turned to follow.

The words left her lips with no permission or even suggestion from her thoughts. “Why are we stopping here? It’s nearly sundown.”

Thorin, obviously having expected immediate compliance with his comment, stopped and swung around to look back over his shoulder. The hobbit was still mounted and further, didn’t seem to understand that he’d given a poorly veiled instruction to help make camp. Bilbo bit at her lip for a moment before meeting his stare. Her raw calves, aching thighs and tender rump longed to be off the pony, but the lack of warm food and soft beds in the nearby vicinity held her hostage on Myrtle’s back.

The King of the dwarves’ brow drew down and creases lined his forehead. His voice held the timbre that she had been dealing with all day, with only an edge of exhaustion tipping his words. “Exactly, and that is why we are making camp. We can continue in the morning.” Thorin’s grimace masqueraded as a grin, teeth bared, more a technicality of manners than actual attempt to find middle ground with their would-be burglar. “After breakfast, of course.”

With that concession to settle the hobbit, he gestured to Balin that they move to take advantage of the last of the day’s light, only to be stopped by the confused outrage that persisted in light of the subtle instruction he’d issued.

“Bree is only a mile away. Why on earth did would we stop here?”

Thorin growled under his breath and most of the dwarves stopped in order to watch the curious moment play out. Thorin looked to Gandalf first, but was merely given an absent nod. The hobbit had been difficult all day. Sullen and weary from riding, it took effort to impart the practicality of their campsite. Balin had stepped forward, but he made no move to do more than smirk so strongly Thorin could feel it hit the side of his head.

“I would rather the men of Bree and their ill intentions know nothing of our passing. We will camp here. Where it is safe.” Thorin had no desire to anticipate attack from the shadows of Bree and its illicit tavern corners a second time. The wizard’s presence was a deterrent, but courting trouble so early in their journey was foolish. The coin spared might be necessary later, and it was with the weight of leadership that he chose to forgo the town of Bree and its comfort in light of safety for their group.

The fact that that safety involved not having to pay for food, drink and boarding for 13 dwarves, one wizard and one hobbit was an added benefit, as was maintaining the secrecy of their passage. Already, far too many whispered the mountain’s name, and avarice would overwhelm fear in the hearts of men without any added temptation. For all those reasons he had made the decision, and no dwarf among them had raised the question as they passed the marker. He’d believed that the hobbit’s silence on the matter as they passed the fork was the first sensible thing he’d offered all day. It seemed he merely was late in his foolishness.

“Now dismount and help Bofur gather wood for the evening’s fire. Not too much. We wouldn’t want to announce our camp unnecessarily.” He gestured to the neighbouring wood with his free hand but had already turned away.

“ _Are you completely insane?”_

The camp froze. It was not the quiet stillness of curiosity; this was a moment that none would wish to be a part of and their stillness aided in avoiding filling the space where the impossible had just occurred. Bilbo scrambled to get off the pony. Her legs buckled and she had to catch herself in Bofur’s helpful hold. The dwarf was still helping Bilbo, but with the unfortunate realisation that this offer had placed him directly in the dragon’s mouth, so to speak.

“Ah… Mister Bilbo, it’s not the wisest thing to question a king's… thinking.”

Bilbo brushed off the whispered warning, stepping forward on quivering legs. “That is the Old Forest. You don’t go into the Old Forest! Especially not for something as foolish as firewood.”

Thorin’s voice came quietly in the shocked hush. “What did you say to me?”

Bilbo puffed up slightly. “I mean, I understand that you don’t know the land here and have gotten us turned around and all, but the Old Forest? Didn’t someone warn you about it?” She swung her head to Gandalf. “We shouldn’t even be this close, especially with Bree just a little ways away. This is just… just… silly!”

Thorin stepped forward, and then stepped again. Behind him, Balin traded a glance with Dwalin, but the larger dwarf merely shrugged. Thorin had enough control not to cut the hobbit down so soon, after all. And best the little thing get a taste of Royal Manners sooner rather than later. If a simple thing like this scared him into turning back, it might be for the best.

“I mean I’m sure you are very good at deciding where to camp in the wilderness and mountains but this is the Old Forest, and the Barrows lie just beyond. Not to mention that if we’re going to be set upon in the night, they’d have to be a foolish lot to attack a horde of dwarves sleeping in the dirt.”

Thorin Oakenshild, Durinson and King under the Mountain, stopped a foot from Bilbo Baggins and tilted his head. The smile on his face was a lie, a frozen remnant from his last comment as all thought was directed towards not throttling the annoying little creature and none was spared for the muscles of his face. The shadow of the dwarf chilled Bilbo’s skin even with the approaching of dusk. As the rather tall dwarf loomed forward, Bilbo leaned back to match, and couldn’t help but notice that Bofur did the same even from two feet away.

The words, when spoken, came from so close Bilbo could feel the damp of his breath stir her curls and she swallowed. “Mister Baggins. Get your pack off the pony. Put it down. And then assist with gathering the firewood. We. Make. Camp. Here.”

Thorin leaned back again, watching the Halfling for a long moment, waiting to see him scurry away and do as he was told. Bilbo watched him back, a tension in his form that kept his spine bent and kept him leaning back as far from Thorin as could be, but his feet, those large furry things, did not move. The camp held its collective breath.

“I- if you could just listen to me, for just a moment-“

A large hand buried itself in her shirt and strained the cloth. For a heart-wrenching moment Bilbo felt the back of heavy fingers brush against her breast binding before she was yanked forward, so close that her vision filled with dark hair, indigo eyes and thunder.

“Allow me to clarify things hobbit, before we have issue with this arrangement. I am the leader of this company. Until you have shown that you are worth more than complaints and a grocer’s craft, your opinion is neither desired nor required outside of any acts of burglary.”

Bilbo was sure the threads of her shirt stretched as those fingers clenched further, twisting the fine cotton of her best men’s shirt. Thorin’s breath was like an unyielding heat wave washing over her face and she shook slightly as he continued, “You signed a contract to serve this company, and through that to serve at my instruction. Now go put down your pack and gather the blasted wood before the light is gone. Do not question, do not argue, do not complain. Get the wood.”

There was a change of colour as those eyes darkened, and Thorin shifted with them. He frowned, a swell of feeling brushing past his lungs and his fingers loosened slightly in the soft cloth of Bilbo’s shirt. That mouth opened, tongue peeking out as the hobbit seemed to stiffen his shoulders and take a breath in preparation for the mindless gabble which would undoubtedly leave those plump lips.

Thorin didn’t give him the chance. Using the tremendous strength hidden under his leathers, he pivoted and pulled the hobbit sharply forwards before twisting his wrist and sending the hobbit sprawling. It wouldn’t hurt him, but had worked well enough whenever Kili started getting cheeky or Fili’s temper began getting the best of his common sense.

The hobbit landed on his knees on the grass and Thorin, for a moment, unsure what to say. He felt a tickle of guilt in his gut for handling the hobbit so roughly but the soft creature had to learn, sooner rather than later, to deal with the discomfort of the wilds and doing as he was told before he got himself or the company into trouble. That guilty tickle grew as a flare of bewilderment licked at him over the fact that he felt any guilt in the first place for doing what needed to be done in toughing the Halfling up. The foreign emotion hadn’t reared its head when he trained his own kin; it had no business doing so for a stranger from the soft green lands.

 A flicker of motion caught Thorin’s eyes and he tracked it, noting gnarled fingers gripping a staff and the grey hat tipping back even as the rest of the wizard stayed as still as everyone else in the clearing. The censure in the iron gaze was enough to bring him back to the purpose of the example. He turned and strode towards Balin and Dawlin, meeting neither’s eyes but throwing back parting words. “Get the damned wood, Halfling.”

At Thorin’s bark, everyone seemed to remember the tasks they were assigned and turned back to them, trying to avoid the lingering tension,  and slinking through the clearing. Bilbo stayed on her knees on the grass, her legs burning as her bruises and saddle sores screamed at her. Her fingers clenched at the green blades, tight enough to sting, and she fought for a deep, controlled breath. Her eyes burned but she bit her lip, refusing to let them spill over.

Boots appeared next to her and a moment later a warm drawl and hand on her shoulder coaxed her to stand. “There now laddie. It’s just a little tumble, is all. Could’ve been worse, aye? I hear tell the Kings of Men chop yer head off for just lookin’ at ’em funny.”

Bofur’s amiable voice pulled her up more than his hand, but she didn’t meet his eyes. Hobbits had no kings; they had no lords or masters. Their leaders were elected or frankly looked to for decisions purely by dint of having the most reasonable head on their shoulders. She’d never been made to feel so small and worthless by anyone in her life. Her breath shuddered through her, rattling all the bits deep inside that  had been shaken loose by the attack. She looked up to see Gandalf watching her carefully. The old wizard glanced at Thorin’s back and looked to her again questioningly.

He hadn’t spoken up for her. Hadn’t moved. Had just let Thorin toss her down like a lump of garbage. Her lungs clenched and her eyes burned but she kept the wizard in her gaze. He tilted his head again and waited before glancing down the road, back where they had come. His hand came up to brush against his chest and Bilbo glanced down quickly, adjusting her shirt before Bofur’s attention drew itself her way.

“Just a bit o’ rough and tumble after all. Same as you musta had with th’other lads when ye was little. No harm then eh, Bilbo?”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow at her, waiting for her answer to his silent question and gesturing to the trio of dwarves while tapping his finger against his staff. A hobbit was a master of craft and cookery, of gardens and farms and market places. But more than anything, a hobbit was a creature of parties and lunches and social cues. It took a moment for her to interpret the subtle sign but when she did, she shut her eyes at last and gave a small shake of her head. Boys fought and tumbled and pushed and grabbed. They didn’t run crying to the wizard to take them home because someone was mean to them.

“I’m fine, thank you Mister Bofur. I’m just not used to such rough treatment from someone whom I would expect to show better manners.” She turned slightly away from Gandalf, unconsciously wrapping her arms around her waist, shielding her body from these dwarves. She could deal with this.

It was no different from when Lotho Baggins had pushed her into the mud in her best dress for not giving him a kiss, or Lobelia having spread spiteful rumours about her nethers before her coming of age. How she responded would affect how everyone thought of her, whether they shared the King’s view of her weakness or not. It would be best to just let it go, put the minor event behind her, remember it for the future and keep the peace among them all. That would be best. This was just a moment that everyone had already begun to dismiss and forget. Bombur was unpacking pots as Oin and Gloin called out to one another with less than a foot between them.

Even Fili and Kili were content, yelling out and running between the ponies with Ori calling after them. Their age – or lack thereof - showing once more as Stormcloud Oakenshield drifted onwards in his decision-making arrogance. For a moment, she was tempted to retract her signal and let Gandalf act as he would. But she steeled herself; she was no longer a fauntling in need of a protector.

She was a gentlehobbit who had managed lands and farms, kept her house and had made up her own mind to run away and join a bunch of dwarves and a wizard on an adventure. If she was to make her place here, then it could not be with Gandalf’s intervention… if she was to make a place at all, and not turn back in the morning and call it an awful, horrible and pithy lesson in what happened to hobbits who did silly things like leave the Shire.

Bilbo swallowed hard past the knot in her throat caused by the refusal to cry. She forced herself to walk towards Myrtle with as little limp as possible. The dear, hellish creature had not moved a hoof since Bilbo had fallen from the saddle. She undid her pack and slipped it on her back out of habit more than anything else. Definitely not because some silly, so-called king had told her to put it down somewhere and get to work.

“I suppose kings’re just used to makin’ these sorts of decisions eh? Best simple folk like you an’ me stick to what we’re good at and everything’ll work out best.” Bofur let her go by. The noise of the camp was rising again. He stepped back, still awkwardly trying to induce her to get past the brief awkwardness and she nodded at him absently. Then his words caught up to her and filtered through her brain, lingering and settling in like a bird in a nest.

“What we’re good at?” It was a question and a statement. Her hands shook. Nori lead the ponies away, not even glancing at her as he passed. He did give Bofur a nod, she noticed, and it met with a grin from the miner, but most of Nori’s attention seemed to be on the younger voices nearby, calling and teasing. Nori didn’t seem too impressed. He moved away to settle the ponies and water them.

Nothing came to mind at first as Bofur’s words ping-ponged inside her head. No instant defence and surety to push her forward, but there were definitely examples to the contrary, many taken from sideways glances and mumbled phrases all that day.

With Thorin’s disdain still dripping across her skin, matched by the silence of no defenders in a crowd of near strangers, she couldn’t think of what she was good at. She wasn’t good at fighting, or surviving in the wilderness, or at riding on ponies or even at the burglary that was expected of her. She felt something crumple and twist inside her, cold and slim. She tried to remember what she had been feeling when she went running out her door that morning, but all that filled her mind was the foreshadowing of what lay ahead.

“Aye lad.” Bofur chuckled, glad to finally get a response from the burglar. He took in the round cheeks and soft skin and swallowed back a dirty joke before it got him in trouble for upsetting the hobbit even more.  “An’ fer now we’d best be good at getting tha’ firewood.”

She’d been a burden that morning about second breakfast. She had struggled to keep up even riding a placid pony. She’d not thought to pack a handkerchief or a blanket to bed down on. She had definitely failed to find common ground with any of the dwarves except, perhaps, for Bofur. Now she had managed to challenge their leadership without even realising what she had been doing. But still Bofur’s words lingered in her skull, growing louder with every breath.

_‘What we’re good at?’_ _She considered that for a moment._ _She was good at a great many things. She was good at knitting and sewing and darning and cooking._

She stood quite still as Bofur gestured to the treeline and moved under the shifting branches. She did notice that he kept to the edge of the wood, eyeing the growing shadows and picking up only what lay already on the forest floor.

_She was good at telling stories and writing them down. Good at reading maps and learning of places and people. Good at languages and keeping good company and was known for a level head when problems arose._

Nearby, the sounds of the youngest members of the company drew closer and Bilbo looked up again. Bofur’s words tumbled across Thorin’s in her head, trying to jostle past the aches and isolation. She looked up to see Fili and Kili bracketing Ori by a few feet, trailing laughter between them like a rope. Ori bounced, jumped really, and dashed and lunged, reaching for something as the two brothers tossed it back and forth.

_She was good at dealing with an unexpected invasion, whether it was thirteen dwarves or one unpleasant relation and doing what was right and never ever spreading ill-intentioned rumours and gossip. Bilbo was even good at protecting her mother’s silverware from sticky fingers and deep handbags._

“Give it back! I will fong you both, I swear!”

“Now now, Ori. How’s that a nice thing to say?”

“You’re both sodding arseholes.”

Kili held the book out to the side, both brothers grinning at Ori and waiting for some response. Ori’s face didn’t seem to show the same amount of fun in the game as the Durins’ did. He followed their teasing dance closer to the camp and to Bilbo. She looked up and saw that the object of the game of keep away was a book. A large, heavy thing that Ori had been scribbling in early that day and last night.

_She was good at doing the right thing, and speaking her mind. And playing jokes with her Tookish side and scolding with her Baggins side. She was good at arguing with a cheating merchant or cheering up a crying fauntling. She was good at responding to cruel words and money-hungry engagement rings._

Deep inside her chest that slimy, chilled thing uncurled and grew warm. The heat from it spread under her skin, over her cheeks and shoulders and limbs. With every affirmation, her heart seemed to beat again, like normal at first and then with a pulsing urgency matching the thoughts that rushed aheadf. Bilbo blinked and the world’s focus sharpened. She took in Ori’s distress as the brothers stepped close and passed the book back and forth, always beyond the little Ri’s fingertips.

_She was good at doing what was difficult and hard and unpleasant and she was good at finding her own strength when most people collapsed. She was good at making new friends and she was sure as hell good at knowing when and where to rest her head and rationalising why._

Kili’s hand slipped as Ori came too close and the book fell slightly before Fili caught its edge. The sound of the corner of the page in his grip tearing against the weight of the book echoed across the short distance between Bilbo and the dwarven fauntlings. Ori’s anxious caw was soft in comparison to the sound of that paper in her ears.

_And more than anything else, since she was a little faunting and Lotho Baggins pushed her in the mud, Bilbo was very, very good at standing up to bullies._

Bilbo marched forward, ignored as her feet took her across the soft grass and approached the backs of the Brothers Durin, now standing shoulder to shoulder and still holding Ori’s book over their heads and out of his reach. In a move practiced on a hundred Took cousins at a dozen Took picnics, she snapped each hand out and up and grabbed through locks and braids to seize their earlobes.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Bilbo’s voice was sharp and precise, snapping with the pitch that touches the inner child and promises that child that there is agony in their near future should their response be deemed inadequate.

“Ow! Ow! Let go, let go dammit!”

“Bilbo what are you, ah-!“

She pinched hard and pulled their heads down and towards her, both Durins gasping and struggling to resist. Kili braced himself, trying not to fall over, but Fili reached instead for her wrist to break her hold. Bilbo frowned and squeezed harder on both lobes, adding a twist. His hand dropped slightly and every time he raised it, she twisted again until he got the message to keep his hands where she could see them.

They might be armed dwarven warriors, and she had no doubt if they meant to hurt her they could, but she gambled on their youth, and the vocal contortions and ability to deal with troublesome teens that had made her a favourite babysitter in her family. Besides, they might have power in their sword arms, but she had fingers that dug the earth and kneaded dough with a fearsome strength of their own.

“What do you think you’re doing to Ori? Tossing his things around like it doesn’t matter. Give him back his book.”

Ori, who till now had stared, wide eyed, at what was supposed to be a soft and passive hobbit, swallowed. The Durins didn’t move except to grow louder. Their protests started drawing attention from others: Dori’s displeasure at Ori being harassed turned to approval of Bilbo taking hold of the situation in a way that most dwarves wouldn’t dare wield, not against Durins and future kings. Nori seemed to be a moment from cheering the hobbit on, watching as the princes were put firmly in place by a creature fully a head shorter than them.

Gloin’s dumbfounded disapproval at his cousins’ treatment was matched only by Oin’s complete ignorance as he faced away, the half-deaf doctor not paying enough attention to be witness to the unfolding events. Bombur moved with some speed for his brother’s side after Bifur’s nudging, moving to the edge of the trees to get Bofur, the only one so far who seemed comfortable talking to the hobbit, clearly hoping that his brother would be able to stop the inevitable chaos when the King saw what was happening to his heirs.

Across the clearing, away from the noise and distraction of camp being made, Thorin and Dwalin had their backs to the pending eruption. Having needed to go over their route and plans for the following day, as well as rework the food ration to include the Halfling, Balin and Thorin had chosen this spot for its lack of distraction. Even so it was Balin, looking wide eyed over Dwalin’s shoulder, that caught Thorin’s eye.

He glanced back himself. Seeing the hobbit manhandling his nephews near the ponies he swore – guttural and low speech for a King, even in Khuzdul, but perfect for a blacksmith who had just seen a piece of horseshit get up and kick over his anvil and tools. Thorin spun on his heel. Obviously, he’d been too gentle with the halfling before. It was clear that the small creature needed to be taken in hand before the night was done and have it made very clear what his place in this party was.

Dwalin, seeing Balin bury his face in his hands at Thorin’s departure, turned to see the hobbit manhandling the King’s nephews. With eyes used to taking in the details of a battlefield, the warrior saw Ori in the scene, staying well out of reach and observing the hobbit’s firm grip on both Durin boys. He saw Thorin stomping across to deal with the matter and noticed what no one else did: the wizard was standing with a firm grip on his staff, watching not the trio of youths and the hobbit, but the King himself. Dwalin chuckled at the squeals of the princes, familiar with their pleading excuses by now, and moved forward. In his case, though, it was admittedly only for a better view.

“Give Ori back his book.  _Immediately_.”

Bilbo didn’t raise his voice. He repeated the instruction again, calm as you please if not for the steel behind his fingers and tone. Kili spewed a chattering litany of pain and commands to be released, which turned into pleas with every pain-filled second. He dropped his arm quickly enough, holding the book out to Ori and reaching forward as far as he could to push it into the other dwarf’s hands. Ori hesitated, wary of coming close enough to the seething Mr Baggins even as much as he wanted his book, but after a moment he inched forward, carefully plucking it away. Fili, on the other hand, tried to reason with the Bilbo.

"Let go! Come on, get off! Come on, Mr Baggins, it was just a game! A bit of fun is all! Tell him Ori!”

Bilbo’s gaze lifted to the scribe and Ori cradled the large tome carefully to his chest. He opened his mouth to say something when he saw the hobbit’s eyes focused on him, a question there. Something warmed inside of him, light and soft. He swallowed again and when the words left his mouth they were not soft. “It wasn’t fun for me. It’s never fun for me.”

Fili and Kili stopped in their writhing and stared at their childhood friend. “Ori…” the Durin boys both made aborted gestures towards the little scribe. Ori for his part didn’t respond to the princes but rather scuttled away, partly because his burning red cheeks had taken in that they were the centre of everyone’s attention, but mostly because part of that attention was from King Thorin. King Thorin who was bearing down on them like a warg on a fresh kill. Ori, for all his gratitude at having his book back, had enough intelligence not to be caught in the crossfire. He gave the approaching king a wide berth and hurried over to his brothers to become part of the audience.

Fingers loosened and slipped away from their ears and the hobbit huffed, “there. It’s not a game. When you disrespect the property of others, then you disrespect those people. Ori is your companion, and your friend. You had no cause to be cruel.”

They turned to him, rubbing at their ill-treated ears and dropped their heads as low as their chins would allow. The shadows of twilight grew as both looked at the ground and then to each other. A silent conversation and confession reached between the brothers. Finally, as one they turned to Bilbo.

“We’re sorry Mr Boggins-“

“Baggins!” Fili jumped in almost as quickly as both boys stepped back in the wake of Bilbo’s glare flaring up and catching them in a web of grim assurance, their hands cupping their ears to ward off hobbit fingers. “Mr Baggins! Not Boggins. We don’t even know a Boggins, do we Ki?”

Kili swallowed hard and felt it when he did, as well as the rushing throb of blood through his ear. “No, no I said Baggins, definitely. Bilbo Baggins. Of the Shire. Hobbit.”

They cringed back, not knowing whether to expect another barrage or acceptance of their clumsy retraction but before Bilbo could interrupt, a bellow filled the clearing.

“What in the name of the Stones do you think you’re doing, Halfling?” Thorin had reached them. Giving no heed to the rest of the company or even the wizard who was a second from stepping in, he stood, teeth clenched and eyes doing their best to set Bilbo on fire.

The heat of that furious glare lit up Bilbo’s shoulders with cold, burning awareness. She took a deep breath, and then another. Instead of calming the pot which had been simmering all day, each breath fanned her own flame, spiking and speeding one after the other until everything inside her boiled over. She had had enough.

Her hands ached to clench tight on vulnerable flesh, but Bilbo was not foolish enough to lose her limbs to the provocations of an idiot. She looked ahead at the raging Royalty, not noticing the younger Durins proving their relation to Ori in edging out of the way of a battle that they had no desire to take part in. There was, perhaps, an hour left till the sun’s lingering light left the world painted in night.

“What I’m doing,  _dwarf_?”

The chill in the response was like the first few pebbles in a landslide. Thorin tensed, taking the warning for what it was. He stopped a few feet from the hobbit, confusion and surprise beginning to roll over the hills of his perception, slowly gaining momentum.

“What I think  _I’m_  doing? Surrounded by ill-mannered, ill-favoured dwarves, a hundred miles from my home, on the way to face a giant fire-breathing beast, and you ask me what  _I’m_  doing?” Bilbo turned then, nostrils flaring and eyes seeing nothing but Thorin’s stupid, rugged face. Red mottled her cheeks, painting her neck and face as the simmering, bubbling boil finally reached her lips and everything spilled over.

“Well then, in accordance with your earlier commandment oh mighty, unchallenged Thorin Bloody Oakenshield, allow me to tell you what I think! And what  _I’m doing_!”

Normally a pair of crossed arms was a defensive gesture, shielding the body form danger. Thorin couldn’t help but think of things like strangulation as Bilbo crossed tight arms and sharp elbows into a knot, high over his chest.

“What I _think_ is that you are a pompous, arrogant sot, who regardless of your unquestioned leadership on where we go and where we don’t, doesn’t know his arse from his left turn on a map! What I _think_ is that you didn’t expect me to join you regardless of your invasion of my home and pantry, and the lack of time for me to prepare and put a saddle on my  _pack_  pony makes me doubt that you are adequately supplied at all, much less now that I’ve joined the company. What I _think_ is that you are damned lucky you had me sign that piece of paper, because currently it is the  _only_  thing keeping me here at all after your unprovoked laying of hands on my person.”

Bilbo took a step closer even as the volume of his voice rose and it was only sheer habit that kept Thorin form stepping back, Dwalin surmised. He did note that the wizard’s grip on his staff was no longer as tight as it had been.

Bilbo’s throat flared with the emotions choking and competing to escape on her every breath. “I am not a dwarf and this is not a dwarvish kingdom and you are  _not my king,_  so don’t think you’re going to treat me like some halfwitted, lickspittle dogsbody with no thought, no opinion and nothing to contribute but silence until it otherwise suites you.”

Thorin was flabbergasted.

The sharp retort from the – thus far – passive little creature was like finding out a flower had teeth after it had taken off someone’s fingers. He was still too busy trying to catch up on understanding what had just happened and what had been said to keep up with the vitriol that lashed from Bilbo’s lips.

“As for what I’m _doing_ , I’m going to find myself a warm bed, a hot meal and whatever I can still find from the shop keepers that are still open. I will _not_ be spending a night beside the _bloody_ road in the damned Old Forest that even the most senseless of Brandybucks know better than to go near at night. Good evening to you, sir!” She was panting. She didn’t wait for a response before she stropped across the grass, not allowing time for anyone to catch up with her.

The rage that Thorin had wielded like a hammer wilted in the wake of the onslaught and the resulting bewilderment. “You cannot leave Halfling… you are sworn to this company.”

“I’m not half of anything!” Bilbo snarled over her shoulder before she paused and gave the King a withering look. “The Bridge only opens in the morning. Seeing that it is the only safe way to cross the river  _and_  is on the  _other side_  of Bree, I shall meet you there. After breakfast.” With that she marched away towards the slow birth of lights on the horizon, trying to outpace the approaching night. She wholly ignored Thorin calling for her return.

After the third time he had called fruitlessly to the hobbit, Thorin stood, body swaying but feet firmly planted, warring between the need to fetch the hobbit back to the safety of the company and the embarrassment of having to run after the damned Shireling with everyone watching. Gandalf moving past him helped save him from deciding, his irritation shifting focus to the wizard. His voice remained, if not polite, then at least not loud. One did well never to raise one’s voice at wizards after all, regardless of how sorely one’s temper might be tried. In any case, the louder you were the less likely they were to listen.

“And where are you going Tharkûn?” He asked, using the wizards dwarven name as a subtle reminder of his inclusion in this dwarven venture. Before he ran off to cavort with hobbits.

Gandalf shrugged lightly as if it was of no consequence. He had put out his pipe and leaned forward on his staff with both hands, emulating the stance of a harmless old man. “Well, the Prancing Pony has particularly good ale in at this time of year and since you will all be in Bree in the morning, I thought I might join Bilbo there instead.” He rubbed at his back, usually straight and proud, now bent like a bad pick. “A bed will do my old bones some good, I think.”

Thorin nearly growled. He couldn’t stop the wizard from leaving, not like he should have stopped the hobbit. He didn’t have to agree, though, and seeing that no assent would be offered, Gandalf moved again to leave, but not before imparting some last words which caused Thorin’s fists to clench tight enough to feel his nails bite into his palms.

“Better I go after him. Bilbo has family around these parts and no doubt they would do their best to dissuade him from helping you reclaim your home. I’ll make sure he doesn’t change his mind.”

After offering that last comment as if his leaving was a favour to Thorin, the wizard was gone. Dwalin sidled up to Thorin, standing next to the hero of Azanulbizar, who still had not so much as looked away from the retreating figures. Retreating was an easier thought to deal with than deserting. Dwalin’s presence made the king aware of the silence and sheer stillness that held the camp enthralled; it was a stillness that spoke of a hesitance to disturb things, lest another rockfall roll over them.

“Well, least we know the hobbit’ll have the balls to face down the dragon.”

Dwalin, his bodyguard, cousin and brother-in-arms had no compulsion to avoid invoking Thorin’s displeasure. Thorin wondered if it wasn’t due to something being knocked loose during their childhood sparring. His sense of self-preservation perhaps?

Thorin did not appreciate the subtle comparison. He still didn’t know what to say. He was… unaccustomed… to having to face someone unafraid to take him to task since before he had become the Oakenshield. Dis, being his younger sister and mother to Fili and Kili obviously was not included in this consideration.

The moment stretched, longer and longer, before Dwalin sighed. “You done sulkin’ yet yer highness? Or can we pack back up and follow them inta the village?”

Thorin’s fist left the larger dwarf bent over, laughing andheaving for breath, leaning on his axe. He turned to face the others. The damned hobbit was right about it being their last night in a bed, and about the bridge and maybe even about the extra supplies. He nodded to the others as he moved to get his pack.

“Get everything back on the ponies. We’re going into Bree.

Everyone was wise enough not to comment and simply got to work unmaking their camping efforts to leave and head on into the village.

“ _Do you think hobbits claim victory beads, Ki?_ ”

Everyone except the exalted heirs to the line of Durin.

End of chapter

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angels lyrics for those without youtube:
> 
> I'd never seem you out  
> I'd never chase you down  
> Cause I've seen the age to come  
> Victory for no one
> 
> You never cooled the fire  
> But you incite your crowd  
> Can't see what you've become  
> A crown with no kingdom
> 
> (Refrain)  
> And now you see the Angels  
> Gathering above you  
> Trading down the stars  
> Diamonds in the dark  
> Fires in the sky  
> Lighting up the earth  
> Now you see the Angels
> 
> You only play to win  
> Laugh at the ones who lose  
> There's millions shouting out your name  
> Still you light the fuse
> 
> You say you want to fight  
> Then you always run  
> You don't want to die  
> Still you shoot the loaded gun
> 
> (Refrain)  
> And now you see the Angels  
> Gathering above you  
> Trading down the stars  
> Diamonds in the dirt  
> Fires in the sky  
> Lighting up the earth  
> Now you see the Angels
> 
> (Refrain)  
> And now you see the Angels  
> Gathering above you  
> Trading down the stars  
> Diamonds in the dirt  
> Fires in the sky  
> Lighting up the earth  
> Now you see the Angels
> 
> (Refrain)  
> And now you see the Angels  
> Gathering above you  
> Trading down the stars  
> Diamonds in the dark  
> Fires in the sky  
> Lighting up the earth  
> Now you see the Angels


	3. Bree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet Prim: http://31.media.tumblr.com/c0004cf6a1f176692c730470b4867a22/tumblr_n5o3j30ie71qcm0m3o1_500.gif
> 
> Tangled - Mother Knows Best  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fi8kYcl2Y38&index=5&list=RDQMHgvyPcRpU8o  
> Aka ‘Primula’s theme song:’  
> “Ruffians, thugs,  
> Poison ivy, quicksand!  
> Cannibals and snakes  
> The plague! Yes!  
> Also large bugs  
> Men with pointy teeth,  
> And Stop, no more, you'll just upset me!”
> 
> (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/4f/53/f8/4f53f806b33ac9291f7d009cdc1196d7.jpg)  
> Prim’s idea of Thorin.
> 
> Nyrah: After variously pleading, threatening, cajoling and eventual shunning, I have managed to get Saint off her butt and writing again. Saint?  
> Saint: *mumbles* I'm ashamed and I don't deserve my amazing readers  
> Nyrah: and...?  
> Saint: I'll post another chapter before the end of the month, because if I don't you'll kick me out and I'll have to find a new roommate and bestie.  
> Nyrah: Yup! them's the breaks.  
> Saint:... and you'll delete all my video game saves. And my Fallout collection. And my mobile games. And tell my role-playing group that I'm not allowed to play anymore. Meanie! *runs away crying*  
> Nyrah: I do it because I love you, and you have this entire thing planned out. You LITERALLY just have to write it down!

Bree

***O***

_Bree was a very ancient settlement of men in Eriador, long established by the time of the Third Age of Middle-earth. After the collapse of the kingdom of Arthedain, Bree continued to thrive without any central authority or government for many centuries. As Bree lies at the meeting of two large roadways, the Great East Road and the (now disused) Greenway, it had for centuries been a centre of trade and a stopping place for travellers, though as Arnor in the north waned Bree's prosperity and size declined._

***O***

Dwalin had been a soldier and a guard for longer than any of the rickety grandfathers in the village of Bree had been alive.  During the long march from Erebor and years of struggle in Ered Luin, the axe-wielding dwarf had been made to visit many villages of men across the lands of Middle Earth; whether simply passing through or the occasional stint as guard for some caravan. Now, in the final grasping light of the day, he took in the village of Bree. He found it to be not so large as some, but then also not as small as the word _village_ implied. His experienced eye took in this ‘Bree,’ and found that not only was it playing at being a fortress, but it was doing none too poorly at it either.

There were many villages which sat upon a hilltop, preventing both the hordes from approaching unseen as well as ensuring that should they arrive, they did so winded. None of those other villages, though, had the occasional round door and smoking chimney hidden among the dips and curves of the lush grass leading up the hill. There were some villages which built a wall encircling their homes and businesses, secure enough to bring comfort to all those who lived life behind them. Those walls however, were normally built of pillars of wood, rather than stone raised as high as the roofs peeking barely over the edge of the barrier. There were even a few villages which kept a trench deep around them, a guard against horsemen and hungry livestock both, but none he had ever seen backed by a thick hedge of thorn and bramble to catch and cut at any who might be able to conquer that trench. This was no fortress, clearly, but all the same there was a very definite intent, in every brick of design, at keeping unwanted visitors where they belonged: _outside_ the village of Bree.

A tip of red flame caught his eye and he turned his head from assessing the sight of the village to see that Nori had sidled forward. A considering thought rode his knit brow as the thief took in the fortifications as he had; for entirely different reasons, Dwalin was sure. Still the Ri stood, his forge-fire hair like open flames in the setting sun’s light, searching for a weak point. The red-haired dwarf turned to him then and their eyes met in understanding before both glancing back behind them, the way they had come. Walking up the path and hill with crowd and ponies, the only threat had been Thorin’s still-lingering temper over the hobbit’s outburst. But now, the sun was nearly gone and the shadows of the wood seemed to be spreading out, reaching forward and trailing just a little ways behind them.

_By Mahal’s own forge, what skulked in those woods?_

What was once a simple refuge for leaf eaters and small animals now seemed watchful and tense, and Dwalin shuddered, not wanting to turn his back on it without those walls and trenches between him and an enemy he wasn’t sure he could face with his axe; one that might not even exist outside shades and dreams and paranoid words planted by their new burglar, but present none the less. He wasn’t sure if it was simply the hobbit’s words calling horrors from below into the forefront of his mind but right now he was gladdened that they had followed the fussy little creature as they had.

Beside him, Nori’s fingers twitched and he glanced to the forest again. Dwalin saw, for only an instant, a sliver of tanned skin showing through the braids of his beard as Nori’s neck twisted to look behind them, perhaps seeing the same imagined shadows, perhaps not. Either way, the instincts shared by guard and rouge and any who walked the quiet shadows of night whispered to them both in a chill voice. But for Dwalin those voices were dismissed, lost to the moment of skin and the vulnerable heat beneath the meticulous weave of beard on the Ri.

The guard’s mouth filled, thick and warm with breath and thought and it took a moment before he could force it back down. He swallowed back the shameful saliva of want with a shake of his head and moved forward again, following Thorin, his king. It didn’t matter how lovely the Ri’s were or what Nori’s smirk might promise along the way from alley to jail cell.  He was a rouge, a smuggler and a common thief. Sharing place in the company would never unmake those truths. A sliver of want could never overwhelm the shame he carried under that skin. He shook his head again. Turning forward and moving closer to his Brother and King, he pushed other thoughts into the foreground. Raised voices broke him from idle and dangerous thought. He approached the great wooden gate, the weakest point apparent in these fortifications.

“Yeh ain’t gettin’ in. I already told ya that. It’s past dark and t’ain’t nobody gettin’ in now! What else do yer want?”

“For you to open the gate and let us in you _kabâru drekh*_!” Barked Thorin.

His kin’s shining charm aside, he understood Thorin’s frustration as they had seen the gates swing closed mere minutes before they reached them. Balin tried making peace, stepping between Thorin and the human, muttering to the guard - what of him they could see through the viewing hole in the hard, wooden gate.

“Now I understand that you must see the gate closed at sunset, but surely you see as well as we do that there’s a bit of time left.”

Balin’s friendly tone tempered the iron of Thorin’s frustration even as the other spat back Kuzdul too hard and harsh for the man to understand. His tone held all the hellish translation of imagination however, driving up their likelihood of having to stay outside ever closer with nightfall. With the growing shadows of the Old Forest, Dwalin felt less forgiving himself and moved to stand in view of the small porthole, realising that the man there wasn’t much taller than he was.

“Well it’s already dark enough so yeh short shits can _piss off_!”

_* kabâru drekh – mangy animal_

***O***

In the village, in-between stalls being packed up and voices calling out for last sales and turning away stragglers in equal proportions, Bilbo made her way through the market. She counted off in her head the several things she’d managed to get, from blankets to tobacco, compounding the conundrum that faced all the travellers, which compelled one to pack for anything that might come up, but also to limit oneself strictly to what one could easily carry. Passing near the eastern market gate she heard the raised voices and frowned, watching Bill Ferney - the old gate guard - from behind.

She shook her head at the disruptive attempts to gain entry adding colour to the local sounds of the evening. If they’d just listened to her, they would be inside and not having this problem. She considered going to help them, not wanting the young ones to suffer the night and the shadows it held. Memory of the pained day’s travel encouraged her not to get involved. It was late and these were dwarves. Mr Ferny was a nosy, nasty piece of work who was mean, besides being as crooked as a corkscrew. He wasn’t too bright or the least bit subtle though, and eventually one of them would figure out to bribe him with coin or news like everyone else.

Meanwhile, time was fast running out and she still wanted to stop at a store or two after the stalls had packed up proper. It was important that she had everything she’d need now that there was time to think before morning; essentials to make her journey easier. More importantly, some hard buns and dried fruit to prevent another incident like missing second breakfast while at all possible. Turning on her heel she made her way over to Mayflower Proudfoot’s stand. Baker’s first and then she’d head over to see about some extra thread and the like before the dear hobbit closed shop.

***O***

Gandalf the Grey, also called Olórin, Mithrandir, Incánus, Tharkûn, Greyhame, Old Greybeard, the Grey Pilgrim, Stormcrow, Láthspell, Big Greybeard, Long Greybeard, Pointy Hat, Tall Fellow, Gandalf the Fool, Wizard, Servant of the Secret Fire, Wielder of the Flame of Anor and Elf-friend… was in eager search of a drink.

The Pony was his true destination, but slipping unseen through various bygones, alleyways and other, little-known roads might earn him a remembered trinket or treat; a balance born of a thousand years’ experience. Eyes that saw a friend might see the ragged grey cloak passing by, but without magic eyes and ears that might belong to enemies ignored the vagabond crusting through the disregarded gutters of the street.

His route led him to come up from behind the Pony, unoccupied as the stable-hobbit sought his supper - a staple more sacred then an employer’s reprimand. Passage clear and unseen by eyes of men… or others, who walked the streets of Bree with more impunity than those who were best left unseen. The sun had almost set and already the edges of the markets and store fronts were growing hushed as the lit buildings made their presence known with cooking and joyful merriment in the close of another day.

“ _Gandalf_!”

He froze.  
The voice hissing out in a hacked mushroom cloud of confusion didn’t come into the villages of men or dwarf; it didn’t visit this side of the Misty Mountains, as a matter of fact.

_“Gandalf the Grey!”_

The hissing whisper grew lounder with repetition, it seemed. Gandalf peered around, but saw nobody. He checked the murky pools of horse troughs and saw no strange reflection to meet him. He raised a brow. Where the hell was…

“Gandalf! Here! _Shh!_ ”

Only one person was foolish enough to shout a shush. Finally, his eyes drifted left to a tangle of gorse and weed under one of the tavern’s outer windows. No doubt watered by gutters, troughs, patrons’ spilled beer and various odiferous offerings, the smell curled like a finger beckoning him forward like a withered hag’s coarse flirtation. Still, he startled. There under the sill, in the bush itself, was a face. A green face. A familiar face indeed, but… green. Put together with the shift and shape of leaves, branches and even caterpillar eyebrows, the flowers blinked like eyes in the foliage flesh.

“Radagahst?”  
He stepped towards it, making sure that the window didn’t grow ears purely by merit of being ajar. And yes! It was the brown wizard, although at that very moment was more of a mottled mix of green: Green twig, bending and twisting to form the curve of cheek. Green leaves spreading their veins to form temple and ear, green moss, reeking of the patrons’ water… a sight better than the original beard and hair, Gandalf thought privately. The face moved, desperation twisting into joy at his recognition.

“Gandalf! Good! I’m glad it’s really you, old friend. Now come. We must go away from this…” the flower-eyes inspected the nearby buildings with the consideration of an unsympathetic mother-in-law, “place! Quickly.”

“Radaghast! What are you doing here? And go where old friend? I can’t spare much time. I am on a quest most- “

“Darkness, Gandalf!” The slurring confusion cleared in a moment of grim terror he had not seen since they were young and home. “It’s coming. And spreading and… _stop that!_ That’s my foot!”

The face looked down at something unseen below the soil, or perhaps elsewhere entirely. Befuddled foolishness painted his tone again. “Gandalf the rabbits have my foot. Ask the trees, I’m not far. But quickly now.”

“Radagast wait-!”

But the face was gone. And after a moment’s consideration and a brief commiseration from his belly to his brain, so was the grey wizard.

***O***

 

Fili an Kili strolled through the muddy lanes of Bree. Balin had finally gotten them through the gates with the clink of coin and the dwarves had all separated to enjoy what little time they had in town. Since enjoyment was not something often inherent to any of Durin’s direct bloodline, Thorin had turned straight to the Prancing Pony, convinced he’d find the wizard there. He’d called for his nephews to find the burglar at once and bring him to the Pony. “Drag him if you have to, but make sure he is there. I’m not letting the hobbit disappear after this insubordination.”

That left them walking the stalls, empty and closing, in search of the hobbit. Ahead, a baker’s stall was packing up for the day. Left-over buns and cakes were still in baskets, waiting to be taken wherever the leftovers were taken. Most didn’t give the day-old wares a glance but Fili urged his brother, tilting his chin. A glance, a brief nod and then Kili fell two steps behind, slowing his stride.

Uncle didn’t trust them with coin since the last time they’d been given spare it had gone to filling the glass of every dwarf at the tavern but they, like all dwarves, had learnt to do without. Their way of learning did not quite suit the title of ‘Prince of Erebor’ but needs must, as they say. Fili didn’t even glance at the stall as they passed a foot from the edge of it. His brother, following a few paces after, didn’t eye the stall either. Instead, the youngest Durin eyed the baker selling the wares as if she were the most edible thing at the stand. He lagged even more, with a slow, easy smile and eyes meeting hers. At her blush his gaze drifted across her form, caressing. His grin spread appreciatively and she smiled back, biting at her lip.  
Their gaze never broke, even under the promise tying the moment together. The invitation, issued simply by Kili stopping, never came; a moment, a simple moment between the roguish dwarf and a pretty baker. Simple, but perfect, to share over tea with her friends for days to come. Passing the stall, Kili turned, walking backwards, risking catastrophe just for a last, lingering look and a cheeky wink before turning a corner after his brother.  
Fili for his part had flicked his hand out in a subtle motion as Kili met – and crucially, held - the maiden’s eyes. Just for a moment, neither stopping nor slowing, and most importantly unobserved by the distracted woman. A few feet down the way they turned a corner into the thin, piss-fouled alley between two stores and he tossed the pilfered scone to Kili. It was dry, but did well enough for two dwarfs who were still a hobbit away from dinner. They shared a wicked grin.  
Dusting crumbs off a few minutes later and leaving out the other end of the alley, they heard a familiar voice.

“Prim!”

As one they leaned forward, eyes and the tops of fuzzy heads peering around the corner to the street, and the meeting beyond.

***O***

_Blackroot: a thin, hard black root of Shire origin. When chewed, it is said to provide an increase in virile fitness in males. A more confirmed effect is as a contraceptive among the shire’s female population. The use of black root, while vital culturally, carries certain societal criticism. Cultivated from the old valley before the hobbit migration and requiring specific conditions for growth, it is not commonly found in other parts of Middle Earth.  
“Buying my brothers blackroot” Is a common colloquial expression used to signal a hobbitess is ready for sexual exploration without unnecessarily over-inflating the population of the Shire._

***O***

 

A few valuable minutes of sunlight later, darkness had truly fallen. Looking down while packing the traveller’s kit and needles into her satchel, Bilbo was hurrying to catch the last of the bakers before the cooling evening air chased them to early beds. The unexpected collision with a mess of honeyed curls in a neat gingham dress attached to a similarly sized body sent her stumbling before an arm reached out and caught her. The apology was on her lips before her mind had registered what or who she’d run into. Preparing to unleash the ingrained manners that her Baggins father had made as second nature to good breeding, she was brought up short when a joyous, “Bilbo!” bloomed in the air.  
She looked to meet the eyes of her cousin Primula.  
“Prim!”

The two clasped at the other, revelling in the chance meeting. They didn’t often get a chance to meet anymore without their parents’ visits to use as excuse, and with the lanes of the Shire and Buckland dividing them. It showed in their joy as they held each other fast, that even when untangling their limbs and curls, stayed close to speak.

“What are you doing in Bree? I thought you were staying in the Shire all season? If I’d known, I would have offered to join your walking holiday!”

Buckland was not too far from Bree after all, and Bilbo would have seen the sense… if this had been a walking holiday. “It’s not a holiday Prim. I’m… I must go somewhere. I’m being taken with by dwarves.”  
Looking up, she realised that Prim had just come out of the apothecary. Another stop for her to make before the new night chased all dregs of day’s earnings from mercantile minds. The calls of people leaving and stall owners packing up cluttered the air. Night wasn’t too far off, and through the glass she could see the old man behind the counter starting to count the coins of the day.  
“There were these dwarves you see. They came to my home and… well… I didn’t expect this to happen.”  
In her head, she thought of what she needed still. There wouldn’t be time come dawn when other, more sane hobbits were still abed. The glaring item atop that list was in the apothecary. She could survive the lack of rolls or extra blankets to pad the nag they’d put her on, but Blackroot was not negotiable for a young woman travelling with a dozen disreputable dwarves into the wilderness. She continued eyeing the apothecary, judging how long she had until he decided new business wasn’t worth late supper. “Didn’t want to go at all, truth be told, but they were cursedly insisted, so here I am. I barely made it into Bree to get some things I’ll need before they throw me back over that pony in the morning and we disappear across the river.”  
She considered nudging her cousin back into the small store to continue talking while she shopped, all her attention on journey-planning and not on the face so closely related to her own.

Primula Brandybuck was her cousin, her mother’s sister’s daughter and there was a similar apple to their cheek and a shade of gold threaded between their curls. While Bilbo’s was threaded through a riot of hazel and corn, Primula had a head so honeyed that bees could daydream in its riotous curls. Prim’s eyes were the distinctive Took blue however, and right now were as wide as saucers. As she listened to the horrors heaped on her cousin, they were no match for the horrors conjured up by a mind that spent a fair amount of time in the shadowed forests of Bilbo’s latest stories. A kidnapping worsened all those thoughts. “D-dwarves? How many?! What… why didn’t anyone stop them?”

Prim may not have been a fool, but she was occasionally guilty of being quite foolish. Then again, the Tookish blood mixed with Brandybuck courage did not help.

Bilbo looked to her cousin again for only a fraction of a moment as two familiar heads peered around a corner at the end of the road. She swore under her breath, looking around for His Royal Majesty the Storm Cloud. She was in no mood to deal with his nonsense and high-handed demands. “Thirteen dwarves...fourteen if you count the wizard,” she replied absently.  
What the bloody hell were those two trouble-makers doing peering at her around a corner like that? Brunette rats’-nest on legs! Kili’s eyes flittered to her cousin and then…lingered. Appreciatively. Bilbo drew herself up. Her cousin was not to be leered at! She grabbed Prim’s arm, twisting her around to block their view, not realising she was giving her cousin a clear view of the two suspicious dwarves giving the hobbits more than passing attention.  
The second half of Prim’s exclamation finally filtered through. “Stop them? Well they came in very late, and left quite early. I suppose those who saw were too surprised to do much. They didn’t do much damage after all, not enough for anyone to care.”

Primula spun around her cousin’s form, her heart jumping with the sudden movement and a tremble building as she took in the anxiety and tension in Bilbo’s every movement. The Baggins was anxious, that much was clear, and seemed to be furtively looking around all the time. Nervous in gesture and urgent in action: this was _not_ her cousin. She felt cold fill her lungs, imagining what these dwarves would do to her cousin. “Oh – oh Bilbo! We can go. Get a ranger or some such...there’s got to be someone who will help!”

Bilbo sighed, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes drilling into her back, the feeling of each second passing as the light dimmed. Inside the store the apothecary seemed focused on someone in the racks. At least he would wait for them before closing. “I don’t think anyone can help.”  
She missed the sob smothered in her cousin’s throat.  
“Ranger or not, this lot doesn’t seem to trust anyone but dwarves enough to let them close. There’s no one else to take my place in their eyes. At least not now that Gandalf’s convinced them.”

“Gandalf! He’s part of this too?” Stories of caution from her grandfather flashed through Prim’s mind: how the wizard could appropriate the old Took with words and lead hobbits like her Aunt Belladonna into bad decisions and trouble. If he was helping the dwarves capture Bilbo… who could stand against a wizard?

“Prim, let’s move inside and talk, I need to get some-“ Bilbo dove forward into the shadow of the wall, pulling her cousin with her. “Damnit!”  
The flash of white she’d seen moving between two shelves stilled. Balin was in the store. The old dwarf seemed friendly enough, but he also seemed wiser than his foolhardy king; she couldn’t let him see her. She pushed Prim back absently against the brick face. Across the street, Mary Proudfoot sniffed at theses shady actions and hurried away. Bilbo ignored her. Prim, out of habit, gave her a glare that could peel paint in return. Then, realising her cousin was acting like a lunatic, pushed back against the arm holding her to the wall. “What are you doing?”

Bilbo glanced at her, then peered around the corner of the window again. Balin didn’t seem to have seen her. “I need to… one of them is in there, Prim. And I need to get... Prim. _Prim_. What’s that?”

 

Not turning their faces from the women, Bilbo missed the two wastrels, who had been alerted by the furtive actions their burglar, step out from around the corner as they eyed the two hobbits suspiciously. The wizard’s parting words flitted through their minds, and Thorin had said to drag the hobbit to the Pony if necessary. A phantom twinge to their ears had them sharing a glance before nodding in agreement. They couldn’t allow the buxom little hobbit-lass to steal their burglar away. They slunk forward.

  
Bilbo’s eyes were drawn to the brown package Prim had been clutching close through their encounter. There was a familiar symbol on that package her _younger_ cousin held. “Primula. Is that… did you _buy your brothers blackroot?_ ”  
The censure there on her face conflicted with consideration.

“Don’t you look at me like that Bilbo Baggins! You just said you were here to buy it yourself.”

“I am not in my Thirties with no solid prospects Prim!”

“No, you’re in your fifties with no prospects! It’s my life and my brothers’ blackroot Bilbo. Why are we having this argument? You’re being dragged off by a dozen scroungy dwarves! How is my going around the Party Tree worse than that?!”

Bilbo nodded reluctantly. Her cousin was right after all. This was neither the time nor the place. “You’re right. Give it here.”

Primula clutched it like it was her only child. Bilbo spared a fleeting moment to appreciate the irony in that.  
“You go get your own Bilbo Baggins! There’s six weeks’ worth here and I can’t buy again this month! What will people say?”

Six weeks wouldn’t be enough. Not nearly. She’d need much more for a long journey. Possibly enough for the travel back as well. Even if she didn’t exercise her indulgences on the trip, she couldn’t be trusting in hiding her monthlies around that nosy bunch. The idea of sleeping on the cold ground through cramps was even more horrible than riding a jouncing, barrel-sided, post-legged pony with a spine as unforgiving as a gnarled tree branch. Bilbo fiddled with her satchel and pulled out a bag of coin, dragging her cousin’s arm close in confidence. She stroked the captive arm coaxingly. “Dearest Prim, listen. I need you to do something for me. It’s urgent and important. Go in and buy me all the blackroot they have. _All_ of it Prim, and bring it out to me.”

Prim, shocked at the request, loosened her hold enough for Bilbo to exchange her blackroot with the coin purse. “All the- are you _mad!_ My _mother_ shops in Bree! My _aunts_ shop in Bree! They’ll hear about it! Bilbo my father will _murder_ me! And I’ll be grateful if he does before Grandmama gets hold of me!”

“Tell them it was for me then! I don’t care but I need this Prim! I have to-”

Primula shook her head firmly. Enough with this madness. “No Bilbo. No! I won’t- you can’t! No!” She grabbed her cousin’s arm, yanking at her, dragging her away from the apothecary. They hadn’t even made it a few steps when the weight of Bilbo both lightened and became downright immobile in Prim’s hold. Prim jerked to a halt, her arm still hooked with her cousin’s. Looking back, she saw two dwarves - the two from the corner - had scooped her cousin up under her armpits, lifting her up off the ground.

“Afraid not, miss.” The darker one said, a playful twinkle in his eye. “This is our burglar, fair and square, and we’re not letting him go.”

“I’m sure a lovely lady-hobbit such as yourself would be more than welcome to come along though.” The blonde, bristling with weapons and dagger sheathes, chimed in, and Prim felt her heart leap.

“You leave her alone, you hear me! I shall box your ears if you accost my cousin!” Bilbo’s voice was laced with the same kind of irritation that powered her thrashing limbs, demonstrating her willingness to enact the threat against the two young bucks.

Bilbo wriggled wildly trying to break loose, but after a moment sagged in defeat. Ears and vulnerable spots might help, but dwarven grips were not to be lightly overruled. The two turned as one, jauntily carting her away. Bilbo craned her neck and called over her shoulder, resigned, “The Pony Prim! Tonight! Please.”

Prim breathed hard, frantically looking at the corner they turned, now empty and quiet in the growing dark. She looked at the bag in her hand. Bilbo! Kidnapped by Dwarves! Who could she tell? What could she do without Bilbo being hurt and spirited away in the night? Even if she found someone to help, Bilbo’d said there were thirteen of them! And a _wizard_. They’d need a lot more help than trusting to the aid of possibly-passing-by Rangers. She looked to the apothecary and hefted the coin purse; a years’ worth of Blackroot and thirteen dwarves! Imagine!  
And then she did. Imagine, that is, and her apple cheeks flamed scarlet rather than rosy. “Thirteen dwarves and a year’s worth of blackroot.” A scandalised giggle sprang from her lips:  
“Bilbo Baggins! _Thirteen_  Dwarves!”  
She paused for a moment of envious contemplation, and then she shook her head to dismiss such thoughts. If Bilbo needed this, she’d do it, rumour and consequences be damned! And get help after. How far could they get with only one road out of Bree after all? Primula moved purposefully through the door, calling sheepishly to the apothecary within.


	4. The Parting Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: The Parting Glass  
> Chapter Theme:  
> Peter Hollins – The Parting Glass  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hMdoGet2A8  
> Hi Everyone.  
> Here’s the update. We are going to try and update more than once in a blue moon. Life’s been rough this past year but we will try as things get a bit better.  
> P.S. in the text the ‘he’ or ‘she’ of Bilbo is dependant on who’s perspective it is from. People who know Bilbo is female refer to her as she.  
> PS although the theme for this chapter is Peter Hollins’ “the parting glass,” I wrote the chapter to Gaelic Storm’s discography on YouTube. It gives great background music for the read if you’re interested.  
> Again, if you feel like sharing a coffee with us you can buy us a coffee http://ko-fi.com/saintandnyrah  
> Not required but would be appreciated. Remember one cup of American coffee keeps Nyrah and I in tea for two weeks!

 

_The Prancing Pony was an inn in the village of Bree, the capital of the land of the same name. It was based inside the central hub of the town, nearby stables and various merchant stalls. The building was three storeys tall with many windows; its front faced the Road and it had two wings that ran back towards the elevated ground of the hill, such that in the rear the second floor was at ground level._

_Between the wings was a courtyard that was accessible through an archway. Under the arch, a few steps to the left led to the main door. Above the arch was a lamp that illuminated the sign beneath, which showed a fat pony rearing on its hind legs._

***O***

There was a stranger watching her. Bilbo stood at the bar, sandwiched between men as well as the occasional hobbit, and she felt her spine inform her brain that her unknown audience required immediate attention. Since they’d arrived, Thorin had been one silence away from raving at her about her actions: she’d greeted the innkeeper and given her tab for the evening for the party, the dwarves had settled into rooms on her account and she was fetching the next round of drinks for their tables. None of these facts, her spine informed her, were as imperative as the pointed stare painting a target on her back.

Bilbo glanced around surreptitiously. Eventually she spotted the figure and when she did it was a wonder it had taken her so long. His focus was clearly apparent.

He wasn’t eyeing the minstrels or the barkeep or the dozen other odds and ends gathered indoors, revelling the gloom of night into submission. Instead, in a packed tavern where standing-room-only applied to certain quarters, he sat in a corner booth, alone and uncontested. When the warm fire crackled and chased away the shadows and dribbles of rain threatening outside, he kept his hood up. Where song and laughter filled the space, he was silent and watchful. And although she couldn’t see his eyes, she could see his still, unwavering attention fixed on her.

The lively tune dancing between the bodies of the tavern seemed far away and she wondered if she was paranoid. His pipe was lit and his glass was full, and it was the tail end of a long day for many. Maybe he was in lost in thought, or dozing in the taproom’s warmth. Her surveillance had drifted from corner of her eye to a full-on stare and, for a moment, she was sure she’d seen his eyes in the flicker of firelight. He was absolutely staring. At her. A moment passed before, with the barest upward lilt of his mouth, he inclined his head.

Bilbo jerked her head around, her body following close behind to put her back to the unnerving observer. For the first time since she’d met them, Bilbo looked towards the company and the far more familiar glare she knew she’d find there. Sure enough, she caught an accusing steel-grey glower in her direction through the crowd. Thorin did not stare but rather tossed his gaze imperiously in her direction as if to ensure she was still aware of his displeasure. Then again, considering the two brats who’d literally carried her in an hour ago, it could equally be to ensure that she didn’t disappear into the night.

The lively pulse of the evening’s entertainment filtered back to her and, glancing back, the table was empty. The man was gone - nowhere in sight. She decided it was safe enough to put it out of her mind in the middle of a crowd of witnesses.

Stepping around the fiddler as he passed by, a trail of stamps and claps keeping his pace as the drums beat from the corner, she smiled again, raising her hand to gently rebuff an invitation to dance. The tavern’s mood lifted as the sun disappeared, and although it wasn’t the lively warmth of the Green Dragon, Bilbo found the welcoming spirit of the place soothing her unsettled nerves.

Taking the last few steps to the bar, she smiled at those there, shook her head at an invitation to sit and signed for another pitcher of the Pony’s finest ale. As she laughed with Mr Butterbeer on his expounding of the drink that was his namesake, she took but passing note of the two men at the bar. One was lean as a scythe and the other was unapologetically grubby as a back alley. They shifted aside for her well enough but spoke close, and gleaming eyes watched the glittering coin she nonchalantly handed over for the evening’s rooms and meals, as well as extra to cover the drink that might be called for after the party retired for the night.

The tray with its liquid gold was presented and she reached for it, eager to be seated again. Before she could lift it, hands grabbed at her own; small, soft and very like hers.

“ _Bilbo!”_

She looked up and her mood lifted with the familiarity of Prim’s hold. “Prim, thank heavens. I thought you had changed your mind. Did you bring the -?” Her voice dropped conspiratorially and she eyed the crowd around them, not wanting to be overheard. Not only by the dwarves, who might know the purpose of the stuff, but more importantly by anyone in Bree who would spread the rumour back to the Shire faster than fire on a dry thatch roof. Instead, she raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Of course I did Bilbo! You can always rely on me.” Primula handed over the package quickly but she seemed reluctant to move more than a whisper away from her cousin. She bit anxiously at her lip. In the light of the hanging lanterns Bilbo mistook the glimmer in Prim’s eyes for excitement as she pushed the package into her hands. Bilbo found her own excitement in the heavy bundle Prim carried, wrapped in brown paper and twine and just large enough to find a place under the hobbit’s arm.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this Prim. I didn’t know what I was going to do without it.”

“It was nothing, but Bilbo… you don’t have to do this! There must be someone we can talk to, something that can be done! This is dangerous, Bilbo!”

Prim grabbed her cousin’s hand and pulled her in close. Prim’s earnest eyes tried to convince her cousin. “Never mind these ruffians. We can go. Now, while they’re in their cups, and no one would be the wiser.”

Bilbo gave her cousin a soft grin and reached to pat her arm. “Prim, it’s no use. Their leader’s keeping an eye on me and he’s a bit of an ass.”

Prim’s eyes widened and she swallowed a gasp, grabbing at Bilbo’s arm and glancing around. “Are they here? Are they watching?”

Peering past Bilbo to the chamber itself, her eyes scanned feverishly until fixing on the same the blonde and brunette pair who’d made off with her cousin that afternoon. The brunette was watching them, satisfaction clear in his gaze as the other, the blonde, spoke with the large, forbidding-looking fellow beside him. Prim drifted her eyes to the older dwarf and froze. The man looked like he belonged in a dark and gloomy castle on a dark and gloomy mountain, past a dark and gloomy forest… and you’d need to take a dark and gloomy pathway to get there.

He wasn’t watching Prim; his focus was fixed on her cousin. Prim meeped.

Shoving at her cousin, urgency raised her tone and pitch to the point where, likely somewhere nearby, dogs responded in alarm. She bleated out “Oh Valar… mother Yavanna! Smile cousin, _smile_! They’re looking this way.”

The marked quiver in Prim’s golden locks and her apparent constipation made Bilbo’s brows pull down and glance back over her shoulder to take in the Durin menagerie. Seeing Kili’s lascivious grin, she glanced at her cousin. Prim was lovely, but her nature and experience had never taught her caution in dealing with the rougher sex. She’d never learned to see trouble coming in the form of soft dandies of the Shire.

“Primula Brandybuck! Stop making eyes at him this instant!” Flirting with a dwarf was all well and good - Ori, or Bofur… or perhaps even Mr Bombur with his lovely girth - but not a one of the Durins, for all their sharp features and sturdy forms, seemed to have the decency and common sense Yavanna gave to a tomato.

“No Prim, don’t you dare. I’ll not let you say one word to those… those… scallywags! I’ve led you far enough into trouble for one day. No need to go riffling for more on your own.”

Prim pulled up, her voice rising in indignation. “Trouble! I seem to remember trouble following you like a stray dog, Bilbonny Baggins, as it has since we were fauntlings! I’m not the one in it up to my neck being dragged off into the wilderness by a troop of dwarves!”  
Realising the severity of the situation, her face crumpled and her voice dropped. Even her jaunty ringlets seemed to droop. This wasn’t the time to argue, not now while her cousin needed her, while they both had to be strong. “Why, they look as wild as wolves and the grim one looks like he’s ready to drag you off right now! I can’t imagine when they could have snatched you up.”

Bilbo snorted, glancing back again to find that more than one face was facing in their direction, and not only from the company. She leaned in, lowering her voice and hoping her cousin would pick up the hint and do the same. “Wild? No, they’re behaving well enough. It was worse last night when they pillaged my pantry.”

“ _P-p-pillaged your_ … oh Bilbo!” Prim wailed softly. “ _All_ of them?”

“Very much so. Nothing I could do to stop it either. At least they spared my mother’s crockery.”

Grasping at her cousin, visions of ravenous dwarvish invaders ripping at Bilbo’s bodice, stealing her dearest cousin’s virtue, and vile happenings over the kitchen table danced across Primula’s imagination.

“Although only Thorin tried to give me a tongue lashing-“

Prim hands flew to cover her ears and she shivered dramatically. “No, no more Bilbo! It doesn’t matter. I– what do you need? How can I help- in fact no… here, before it’s too late!” Prim grabbed the end of the package and tore a corner, pulling out the first thin, dry black stick and snapping the end off.

Bilbo slapped at her hands but Prim still shoved it towards her mouth, pushing it at Bilbo’s lips. “Take this now, before… before… Oh Bilbo, just chew! There might still be time. You can’t have… dwobbits!”

The slapping intensified as Bilbo’s cheeks coloured cherry red in mortification under the interested eyes on them. “Are you insane? Get that away from me, I am _not_ eating blackroot where everyone can see me! And I have no intention of any sort of… of doing that… that thing. Look, just give me the blackroot and go Prim. You obviously need to rest.”

Prim didn’t give in, pushing her cousin back towards the bar. “Forget who’ll see. Can you imagine what your grandmother would do if she found out I had a chance to prevent your… incident… and didn’t! She’d invite me for tea Bilbo! TEA!”

The earthy-sharp flavour touched her lips as she twisted her head away in time to see Thorin sitting up, spine straight, and Fili and Kili rising from the table and heading their way. Bilbo shoved harder at her arm. “Prim, enough! You must go! I said _no_ , Prim!”

Kili’s look had been far to intent and Bilbo had to get her cousin away before the thick crowd between them parted. “Prim, please just go home. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

“But-“

Bilbo pulled her cousin in, petting her hair soothingly and planting a light kiss on her brow. “I’ll be fine. Just go now, please. And thank you Prim; I promise when I get back I’ll invite you to tea and tell you all about my adventure.”

Prim took one faltering step back, then another. “I understand Bilbo.” Thirteen dwarves and a wizard… Bilbo was ever the practical one, but Prim had seen the imploring look in her cousin’s eye. “I understand. You can count on me.”

She took one last look before spinning and rushing to the door of the tavern. The stable master should still be there. She’d get help! She’d get back to Brandybuck and Hobbiton and rouse their kin. There was only one way out of town after all; they’d be able to catch up.

Bilbo watched her cousin go with a familiar urge to follow. As much as she’d meant what she said to Prim, a part of her was wondering if she shouldn’t just go back. Go home now while she was still somewhere familiar. Abandon this crazy trip.  
Lifting the flap of her satchel, she determinedly shoved the bundle of blackroot in. As she buckled it a voice spoke to her.

“Hello Mr Boggins. Where’d your friend go?”

Kili peered at the crowd while Fili threw his arm around the hobbit. “Pretty as a sunrise on a spring day, she was.”

Bilbo gave the boys a long, unimpressed look. Then said, after a considered punch to Fili’s inner arm which had him jump away, “well the sun has set and it’s night time now, so you can turn right back around and help me with the pitcher.” She headed back to the table, leaving the boys to struggle with their heavy cargo.

She didn’t notice the two men from earlier give each other a nod and slip away from the bar without a word, heading to the small crowd of rough travellers that had claimed the corner table; neither did she notice the elaborate tricorn hair as a figure stepped out from the cover of taller bodies.

Nori thought about what he’d heard. They’d have troubles to contend with since the hobbit flashed coin as easy as he flashed his nape. Still… he paused, thinking over the conversation between the two hobbits, the burglar and his cousin.

‘ _Bilbonny eh?’_

Decision made, he headed for the stairs to the rooms above, bending first to nick the twig that had fallen from the cousin’s hand. Oin had retired after their meal, and before he let on to their so called ‘leader’ what he’d heard, he’d best find out what, exactly, was blackroot. The rest… well he’d have to see how useful that might be first.

***O***

Around the table, the dwarves lingered, the remnants of the fine meal lying in carcass and dish before them, not yet cleared away. By far the largest pile sat before her seat and Bomber’s. None of the others seemed to mind the gaze of their king, and song and smile brushed their beards.

Here and there were empty spots on the bench - those who’d already retired in preparation for the long day ahead. Now though, those who were so inclined lingered over their mugs and the last of the ale. Around them the revelry of the tavern seemed to settle down like a cat before the fire. Then a cheer rose and the fiddles stilled to make way for voices. Songs filled the warm air as cheers and heckling mixed with singer’s notes and conversation shouted above the din.

Bilbo sat and was held in place by her thoughts. Regardless of what she’d told her cousin, now that she was full, warm and surrounded by faces that were familiar or familiar in custom, she looked back on the day. One single day. One day of spiny nags, moody kings and unfriendly dwarves.

Beside her, Fili ignored her silence in favour of tipping the last of the rich ale into her glass, unasked. He grinned at her before turning back to Dwalin, arguing with the large dwarf about something or another. Still, the gesture made her reassess - not _entirely_ unfriendly dwarves.

She watched.

In the Pony, where hobbit and man mixed and passed word and song and ale; where her father had sworn no one stayed alone longer than it took for their meal to come; where people swopped chairs and friends according to the current conversation, the dwarves sat alone. An island at odds with the swelling waves of day’s end.

At the other end of the table Bofur let out a roaring laugh that quieted abruptly as those nearby looked to see the source of his joy. In a moment, perhaps two, the laughter petered out and the dwarves seemed to hunch inwards, fortifying their table and space. Humans and hobbits alike looked away and any overtures of camaraderie chilled in the night.

Even at the table, where they stood together as bastions against anyone who wasn’t a dwarf, wasn’t _us_ , there was distance. The Ris, the Urs and the Durins all had clear lines of conversation that didn’t seem to move and mix as well as they could. She watched, and saw that even a glance between the small family groups didn’t cross where it wasn’t necessary. On one side, Bombur tried for a drink from his empty glass and Bifur poured his own, mostly-full-till-then pint into his cousin’s tankard. When he offered the same gesture to Dori, he was met by with an awkward head shake.

The dwarves still smiled amongst themselves but heavy glances passed between them, and over their shoulders. Soon enough they settled, seemingly comfortable again, but Bilbo watched as their tension rose and fell as the tide of the crowd ebbed and swelled, or the fiddler danced between the tables to the stamps and claps.

They were almost… conservative, displaying nothing of the cheerful naughtiness of the night before.

As the song faded, the fiddles fell still and the clapping and stamping slowed. A new song started, rising from the Tarvy brothers. Two voices flowed together, calming the crowd as many stopped to listen; the harmony drew more and more voices as those who knew the song joined in. The Parting Glass heralded the hour and many now shared in their final glass, their final hour before home and bed.

“… _of all the comrades that e’er I had…”_

Gently standing, Bilbo picked up the empty pitcher, and no one stopped her as she made her way to the bar. The song lifted and all sang of memory and decisions made. The words seemed to fill her ears as never before, and suddenly she _understood_. She gave the pitcher over and while she waited she looked to the dwarves again.

Conservative. They weren’t conservative - they were isolated. Someone brushed against their table and turned to say something. Even though she couldn’t hear, she saw him pull back and step away. Frowning, Bilbo looked at the dwarves brush it off: used to being ignored, used to not even deserving an apology.

Everything in her thought of her home. Of comfortable chairs and warm meals. Of books and maps and afternoon tea. Of neighbours and the garden and long nights on the front bench with a pipe and the stars as company. Bilbo knew about being alone. She’d always found comfort in routine and regularity. It was strange to think that others might not find security in that, but tension. And now without knowing it, the dwarves walked the edge of her will. Her will to leave or her will to stay.

Fili’s lips moved. He glanced at the singers, lips moving with the melody, uncertain of the words. Thorin reached to touch his arm but Fili shook his head, turning away from the music.

_“…but since it falls unto my lot that I should rise and you should not…”_

This was ridiculous. She’d been miserable the whole day. Uncomfortable as well. Had been manhandled and had to argue just for the chance to buy the supplies she needed with her own coin! And this was just the beginning. 

She’d read that contract start to finish: laceration, evisceration, incineration, funeral arrangements and not to forget the – what had Bofur said? ah yes - Furnace With Wings! The thought of it still made her light headed. Really, this silly mission was no place for a gentlehobbit of good repute. _And didn’t that just sound like Camillia Sackville-Baggins jumping out of Bilbo’s throat and voicing her options like fact_ , thought Bilbo, shaking her head in self-disgust.

It was dangerous and uncomfortable and possibly fatal, but then weren’t adventures supposed to be that way? She remembered her mother’s stories. Adventures weren’t supposed to be walking holidays. They were never supposed to be what you wanted or what you planned for. And Gandalf… making friends wasn’t always meant to be, well… easy.

There are decisions, Bilbo reflected, that are made by the essence of who we are. Desire may pull and guilt may nudge, but some decisions were made long before we were born purely by the calibre of who we are.

_“So fill to me the parting glass… and drink of health whate’er befall. But gently rise and softly call, ‘goodnight and joy be to you all.’”_

The final refrain held a tenuous note, softening as friends and strangers shared glass and glance. Bilbo looked from the familiar crowd to the strangeness of her dwarves, and made her decision.

The final line rang out and she joined the crowd for what might be the last time in a long time - if ever.

“ _Goodnight and joy_ _̴ be to… you all_.” Her throat worked and her warble was lost in the chorus of voices but all the same a sense of peace nestled deep inside her.

Decision made and at peace with herself, she curved to the bar. Eye to eye, a few inches from her face, was the creepy hooded man from the corner table.

***O***

Oin nodded to himself, the world blocked away by the walls of their small room and muted by his own ears. He’d been upset at first, once-upon-a-youth, to find his own body beginning to fail him so early in his life. Over time, with every clarity of sound that slipped away and every failed treatment, he found a kind of solace in it.

He might need a bit of help from his ear trumpet, but not so much as others thought as they blathered away in front of him, seemingly ignored. More than that, he found that as his hearing dimmed his sight grew clearer; not the mundane thing of eyes but rather the reading of portents. Heating the stones and watching their glow, melted tin dripped into clear water, the hammering of a blade or trowel whispering in each strike. He saw more now than even during his gifted childhood years.

Full bellied, he’d left the table soon after the meal to read what came next in their journey. He sat on a small stool with his tools, taking his time and the last chance for solitude in who-knows-how-long. He measured out the filings into a small bowl that doubled as a crucible. Placing it in the fire, he let the metals melt and mix without his hand to guide them. When they were ready he reached out, muttered an entreaty to Mahal and then poured the lot into the pure, cold water he’d collected from a spring they’d passed earlier.

_Salvation in darkness. Copper guiding iron. The rune for prosperity and fourteen. Golden temptation._

He sighed in relief. It wasn’t that he mistrusted the wizard, just… rather, it was that he… well… he didn’t quite trust the old codger. But now he sagged, tension he didn’t know he’d been carrying fading as he cleaned his tools. Since Gandalf had said that their fourteenth had to be a hobbit – had to be this hobbit – he’d been nervous. But now he understood it was Mahal’s way. He lifted the rough rune, grateful to their maker making the road clear.

“OIN! WHAT IS THIS?!”

Startled, he jerked and dropped the contents of his hand. Sometimes distraction robbed him of more of his hearing in a few short moments than even the deafness that grew ever greater with each passing year; soon he would indeed be as deaf as he pretended to be. He shook the stone dust from his thoughts and looked at the item that had been shoved in his face.

Holding the thing was the red-haired Ri. Oin had to stop himself for striking the inconsiderate bugger. This room was for Gloin, Oin and Gandalf (not that anyone had seen the wizard since he made for the village). The Maiar had left a message at the tavern that they were to go on without him for now and not a word more.

Typical common stock, interrupting when their betters were clearly otherwise occupied. Not that Oin held with that kind thinking, but he did resent the thief coming in uninvited instead of waiting for his knock to be ignored. He snatched at the twig being waved in his face and looked at it. He sniffed it, then gave it a quick lick to confirm his deduction. Throwing the remnants into the fire, he faced Nori.

“Now don’t you be takin’ none of that! Don’t believe the stories – blackroot won’t put any hair on your chest.” Oin turned back to his fire, muttering _sotto voce_ “You’d think a Ri would have enough hair on their chest without chasing after folk remedies...”

To a race with at best irregular and temperamental birth cycles, blackroot was as good as a curse to this healer’s ear trumpet and he didn’t want it anywhere near their people.  Waving the thief off with that brief injunction, he waited for the other to leave so he could find his bed. “Where ever you got it from just leave it there. It’s useless to males in any case.”

Nori’s face was intense. “Why would the hobbit need a sackful then?”

Oin paused and looked at the other man with confusion. “He wouldn’t… he- how much of a sackful?”

“About six, maybe six and half pounds from what I saw.” Nori darted forward as Oin paled, reaching to support the older dwarf if he needed it. “What? What is it?”

“Contraceptive. Blackroot stops the moon flow. Only the females use it commonly.” He eyed Nori, “The hobbit; this means that he’s a she.” His face paled. “We need to tell Thorin.”

Nori nodded, a chill going through him. Thorin would never allow a female along. It didn’t matter that she was from another race; some things were just ingrained and every male dwarf he’d met would slit their own throat before leading a female into a literal dragon’s den. Nori turned to the door. “I’ll get him. It’s not too late to send Bilbo back. She was talking to her cousin earlier, so she must have kin hereabouts-“

There was a muffled crack and a sharp end of something poked at the bottom of his boot. Nori stumbled as he lifted his foot and noted the mangled copper shape on the floor, once a rune and now snapped in half. He took a brief moment to be affronted at the shoddy craftsmanship, then scooped it up and handed it to the healer before heading back to the door.

“He.”

Nori halted at Oin’s tone. Hollow, horrified but exceptionally firm. He faced the healer. “What-?”

“He. Not she. _He_ was speaking to _his_ cousin.” Oin spoke softly, entranced by the broken rune in his hand. “The hobbit must be male.”

Nori’s eyes jumped to the fire, to the tools there. A reading then, his viper mind gleaned. He hesitated, but it was mostly for show. This was not a lie he would have trouble keeping; he liked the fussy little thing who saved Ori’s book, and would be sad to see her- _him_ go. The thief owed the hobbit a favour, and this could serve the Ris better than anything on this fool’s errand away from the Blue Mountains. “Thorin’s not going to like this.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Oin declared decisively. He met the thief’s eyes at last and the steel there made the message clear. Nori was abruptly reminded that this was the person brought on the journey to deal with the aftermath of the dangers they wold inevitably face. He imagined bleeding out and having the healer go to aid another because of a grudge. “It must be a hobbit. It must be _this_ hobbit, and no other. Mahal has decreed it so. And if this _particular_ hobbit must be male to make this journey, then Bilbo Baggins is a male. Do you understand me.” It wasn’t a question, but Nori nodded anyway.

Oin handed over the broken rune and Nori really looked at it, at the shattered sigil of prosperity, cast of woman’s metal. He didn’t have to be a seer to figure that one out. “Alright. We don’t know a thing, you and me. I’ll help you cover for it when I can.”

Oin nodded absently, his mind already a hundred thoughts away, considering what this could change on their journey.

Nori moved to the window. He had one more stop to make. He’d seen the look on those scoundrels in the bar many a time. He had to warn Thorin that someone – or rather a group of someones – would be waiting for them when they left in the morning. Before he left he paused. He did owe the hobbit for Ori’s book, after all. “Her- his legs. They seemed to be having some trouble after the pony. And a pack saddle can’t be good for… things.” Nori gestured vaguely in the region of his belt.

Oin when stock still, then dove for the door. He had to find his brother.

Gloin, coming up the stairs as Oin dashed out of their room, was surprised to see his usually staid brother in such disarray. He was more surprised when he was grabbed by the arm and dragged right back downstairs.

“What is wrong with you?” He growled, flapping his brother loose and planting himself in the middle of the stairwell.

Oin didn’t pause. “You’ve got your coin purse, haven’t you? Of course you do. We need to buy the hobbit a saddle. At once. The stables should have some for hobbits, shouldn’t it?”

Gloin became a statue, stuck to the floor and refusing to move. “Why the hell would I be spending me coin on the hobbit?”

Oin fussed and tugged, urging his recalcitrant brother to keep walking while there was still time. Through the nearby doors to the stableyard came the clatter and activity that signalled ostlers putting the horses to bed but one never knew when they would close up for the night. On matters of gold or his wife, though, Gloin was unmovable. Oin sighed. He had no choice. He had to let Gloin know.

“I’m going to tell you something. And you are not to go tattling to cousin Thorin or Balin, you hear me? I’ve read the portents and now is not the time to tip the crucible.” Gloin gave his brother a wry look until Oin reached over and grabbed his beard, shaking him. “I mean it you idjit. I will shave you bald and take back the family seat if you say one word. Swear to me.”

The smirk faded and Gloin shifted uncomfortably. “What you’re asking me to do… what’s so important?”

“Swear it!”

“All right, I swear, I swear I’ll not tell!” Gloin pulled back, freeing his braids from his brother’s insistent yanking. “Now what?”

Dragging his hand across his face, Oin breathed deep, trying to find the words. “I found out something thanks to the thief.”

“Nori Rison? Why are you spending any time with-“

He was waved into silence. “The hobbit. Bilbo Baggins is… not what we thought. But still vital to this mission, Gloin. Vital to getting our home back, vital to making a place for our family and restoring our people.”

Gloin nodded, shifting closer as his brother’s tone became more insistent. “Aye. The wizard said so, din’t he? So he’s important enough to need a new saddle because of this?” His own tone didn’t hold the sarcasm he normally would have layered there, but there _was_ a sprinkle of derision.

Oin reached his arm out and put it around his brother’s shoulders. “Think of it like this. Treat the hobbit as you would have someone treat your wife. Would you wish your _wife_ to ride a pack saddle? Would you wish it on her, knowing that someone could prevent it?”

He sputtered, pushing at his brother, offended by the question. That was not a question to be asked. No decent dwarf, let alone a husband would allow it. “Of course not! A female is a delicate creature and deserves to have her needs and comfort seen to accordingly. The least anyone would do was to give her a proper sad-dle...” He drifted off, his thoughts catching up his words. He blinked slowly at his brother, disbelief stamped on his craggy features. “No.”

Oin nodded. “Absolutely yes.”

He swallowed hard. His honour, his principles and his upbringing fighting for place in between what his brother was implying, “But… what if…? We can’t.”

Oin placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder, learning forward to touch their foreheads together, binding them to their secret. “It is _Mahal’s Will_.”

Gloin stared into eyes that were so like his own. “Thorin’s going to kill us when he finds out.” He shook himself loose from the horror and solaced himself that he was standing by his oath to his brother. At least Bilbo wasn’t a dwarf; perhaps Mahal’s will was looser for other races. “But he won’t find out from us. Quickly, we need to get her a proper saddle.”

“Him!”

They darted into the stable, startling the stable master, and got to business.

 

***O***

Bilbo had turned to find, kneeling and inches from her face, the man from earlier that evening. He was no longer across the room and was most definitely no longer reclining in a corner with a crowd between them. He still wore the unnecessary hood, good only for hiding his face like a thief in the night. The long pipe was missing but up close (as he was now) she could make out his scraggly, unkempt cheeks and shady eyes.

Her heart jumped to her throat and she pulled back, unsure why he felt the need to approach as he had. He’d come up behind her without notice and ducked down low to put them both at the same level. She wondered if he was one of those forward sons of Men who favoured hobbits as bed partners for their size. Surely he hadn’t taken her gaze earlier to be one of welcome? She was hardly the come-hither type, after all.

“Mistress Hobbit. I am called Strider-“

“That’s a nice name for a strange vagabond. Please excuse me.” Bilbo tried to shuffle away, not even bothering to be polite, without take her eyes off the man as she stepped back from him. He reached out, his arm blocking off her retreat as his hand hovered threateningly near.

“Vagabond I may be, but also more than this. Please, I am called Strider, of the Dúnedain rangers, charged with watching the borders of the Shire.” The youthful face was earnest and his eyes gleamed with an intensity unusual for one so young. “You must know of me and mine, Mistress Hobbit.”

“Oh. Yes.” The words squeeked out like air from a wet bladder, slow and uneasy. “Those folk.”

Bilbo knew of them. Of course, all hobbits did. Strange menfolk who lived in the wild and circled the borders of the Shire tirelessly, ever watching. Baggins mothers warned their fauntling of the shadowy figures who might snatch them away if they were naughty and who never, not ever came around at tea time even if they were near. Disreputable folk who could see you and would ‘good morning’ back if you were lucky but never stopped for conversation or introductions.

Except this one, apparently. This one, who had introduced himself quite readily and put her in the position of either being rude or of making the acquaintance of a dodgy rascal in the pub. Still, it was never a good idea to get on the bad side of the big folk.

His words caught up to her. “Mistress?” Her voice rose before she purposefully lowered it. “You are mistaken. I’m Mr Underhill. Nice to meet you. Goodbye.”

Again Bilbo tried to slip past but moved too slowly for the strange man. Well, Rangers were known for speed and cunning. He shifted, blocking her escape again. Bilbo wondered for a moment what trick of fate had her catching the eye and company of every wretch who passed though the Shire’s borders. And on that note, where were _her_ wretches at this time when she needed them!

The man, Strider, leaned close enough that the warmth of his breath touched her cheek. “Somehow I doubt tha,  _Mr_ Underhill.” The uncouth human had the nerve to smirk at her. Now that he was in the light, she could see he was handsome enough for a big person. He looked to be young for a Man but well past the edges of childhood. The way he carried himself spoke of far more experience than that, and definitely of more confidence than a youth could claim.

“'I have quick ears,” he went on, lowering his voice, “and though I cannot disappear, I have hunted many wild and wary things and I can usually avoid being seen, if I wish.” And wasn’t that comforting, thought Bilbo sarcastically.

“More than that is _what_ I have seen so far, being this: a gentle hobbit woman, in men’s clothes; carried off at least twice, and made to pay for the company of Dwarves who seem not too friendly. Are you kept in fear? Do you need aid?”

“More than I was expecting right now,” she muttered, trying this time to take small steps back from the man who admitted to having been following and watching her all day. Hearing his story, though unnerving, made more sense. For all their wastrel, unsociable ways, the Rangers were known to do good in the defence of the Shire. They watched the borders far, far away from Hobbiton. Which was exactly how the Bagginses, Sackvilles, Chubbs and Burrowes liked it.

No longer aiming to retreat but having no desire to linger, Bilbo shook her head. “Thank you for your concern but you are mistaken,” she insisted. “They are my … friends.” She bit her tongue when, slight though it was, his brows lifted at the pause. “My travels are not your concern when other, more important things can take your attention. But thank you.”

Strider leaned in, “You need not fear me. Speak and I will help you.”

Something was most definitely amiss to his eyes, that was clear. Bilbo leaned as far back as she could. For all she understood him, his insistence to help a stranger was still odd. “Oh, I think a little bit of fear is healthy now and then.”

Stider tried again, more earnestly still. “If they are taking you, or holding your company against your will, then you need only speak. My kin are near and I would help you if I can.”

His eyes suddenly lifted from hers and he quickly stepped back, standing fast. She would have startled if her galloping heart hadn’t stopped dead as large, heavy hands circled fast around her waist and lifted her up as if she was a knee high fauntling.

She found herself lifted and swung smoothly around by the waist to be put down again, facing away from the ranger and meeting Dwalin’s stern gaze. Only now she stood with Thorin Oakenshield’s strong hands lingering on her for a brief moment as he stood firm and definite between herself and Mr Strider.

Looking around herself, she saw the Company. Ori, Bofur and Bomber were standing, tense, still at the table. Fili and Kili were side by side, arms crossed over their chests. Bifur, then closer Dori, and finally Dwalin, ever watchful, ready to surge forward at a moment’s notice. And standing now behind her, Thorin’s eyes focused on the Man, unblinking, unyielding, sending a clear message of displeasure. Never in her life had she been so glad for the existence of a large and belligerent dwarf.

“Time for bed Mr Baggins.” Dori moved forward to Bilbo’s side and urged her to follow. There was something caught in the air as Thorin and Strider clashed silently. It didn’t matter that Strider towered over him; dwarves were well known to be stronger and hardier than Men. That which was lacking in height was more than made up by Thorin’s indomitable will and sheer presence, which billowed around him like a cloak.

Dori led her off, ignoring her protests. Only once Dori had passed, hobbit well in hand – and didn’t she feel a certain sympathy for the strong-willed Nori with the ever-curious Ori at this – only then did Bifur turn to follow them. Those at the table moved to circle her and she took note that all of them carried some weapon loosened or at hand. That they had had such a close eye on her was comforting. It warmed her to know that they would come to her aid over something even so simple as this.

Thorin stepped back without a word. He knew that in a place of Men, friendly though they seemed, strangers would help each other and would turn on Dwavish outsiders. That was a hard-learned lesson, and a long-lived one. Still, looking up to see the Man harassing the burglar, his own hobbit, had him out of his seat regardless, with those who knew him and had fought with him following close behind. His message here was clear before he withdrew: the hobbit was traveling with his Company, and the Company would happily see to vagrants who thought the hobbit was prey to be accosted.

Dwalin did not move till Thorin passed him. As both elder dwarves passed them, Fili and Kili moved to follow. But not before Kili gave the ranger an ancient dwarven hand sign, one that needed absolutely no translation.

The taproom still seethed with music and conversation, though the moment had soured for those closest, making them subdued and encouraging many to seek their beds. There was a shift in the movement of the crowd, and then where once a hooded man had stood there was only empty space.

A shadow slipped out the door. This was nothing so small as simple bullying. Something greater was happening here, and Strider took off in search of the other female hobbit. He would find out what it was.

***O***

Primula dashed to the livery stables far from the Tavern and close to the western gate. Mr Hardich, who made his living traveling the Shire delivering goods, was a good friend of her father and the Baggins clan and when she’d asked he’d roused himself to help.

“Quickly, Mr Hardich! we must go quickly and bring back help.”

“I understand miss, but what bout the gate? I get you is sayin’ it’s urgent, but tha’ skinflint ain’t gonna open wifout a sackful o’ coin.”

Primula froze, this being an obstacle that she hadn’t considered, and she didn’t know what to do. While she was trying to find a solution in the suddenly unhelpfully blank landscape of her mind, a shadow removed itself from the doorway. “Mistress Brandybuck.”

“Creepy strange man!” Primula shrieked, her mouth betraying her manners. She stuttered, embarrassed by her reaction, before trying to pretend it hadn’t happened by a simple, “Yes?”

The man was lean, dark and tall, with a shaggy head of dark hair, a pale stern face and a pair of keen grey eyes. He wore a well-travelled grey cloak that blended seamlessly (and somewhat nauseatingly) with the night. For all his size, towering over her and even above Mr Hardich, his movements were silent, quick and graceful.

“I am called Strider. I am a Ranger of your borders. You spoke earlier with a hobbit in the Prancing Pony?”

Prim deflated. “Thank Yavanna, a Ranger. Yes, my cousin. She’s been kidnapped by dwarves and I need to get help before they carry her off! They… they’ve already done unspeakable things-“ she choked, tears wetting her eyes, but she scrubbed at them, impatient and needing to save her cousin; she’d promised.

“She’s a Baggins. The clan will come, you see, if I can only get to them to tell them.”

Strider's grimace deepened as he considered the dwarves he’d seen. Seasoned warriors all, even the youngest, and clearly possessive, willing and aggressive by their intervention in the Pony. The hobbits would need more help, and fast.

He looked to Mr Hardich. “I will get the gate open. They’ll not refuse me if they wish continued protection by the Rangers. You both must ride hard for the Baggins hold. I will send word to the Brandybucks and we will do what we can to catch them when they cross the river.”

He looked at Primula, and asked without judgement “can you make the journey?” It was hours of a bumpy wagon ride, and she’d get there by sun down the next day at best.

Primula nodded, not taking offense at a sensible question, and accepted his help up into the wagon even as Mr Hardich took his place on the seat. He flicked the reigns and they were off, the Ranger sprinting ahead to wake the gate guard.

_‘Hold on Bilbo. Help will come, I swear it.’_

***O***

Bullied up the stairs and shown into the Durins’ room, Bilbo had only a moment to exhale as Dori wished her goodnight and took his leave. Wanting to copy them and make for her own bed, Bilbo was reaching for the door when it burst open and Stormcloud Oakenshield himself made his grand entrance.

“What in the name of Mahal’s own Forge is wrong with you! Can you not go five minutes without drawing attention to your foolishness, Halfling?”

‘Why stormcloud? Because he’s large, dark, rumbles ominously and even when he’s coming to save your life, he still manages to completely ruin your day,’ Bilbo thought inanely as the dwarvish monarch continued to stomp around the room and rant. She reigned in her wandering thoughts and snapped waspishly “not half of anything! And if anyone drew attention, _dwarf,_ it was you and your inability to stop glaring vengeance and death at anything in a five-mile radius!”

Indignation made Thorin choke and the dwarf king invaded the hobbit’s space. For his part, Bilbo didn’t react accordingly; instead of breaking eye contact or apologising, he squared off and stepped forward rather than back.

“I wouldn’t be glaring if you weren’t making eyes at the tallest wastrel to be found and making a spectacle of yourself!”

“If I’d been making a spectacle of myself over a tall wastrel, I’d have been making eyes at you! Just because I was raised with the good manners not to shout at people to leave me alone, and then make everyone around me uncomfortable with my intrusive sulking, doesn’t mean it’s my fault!” Bilbo replied tartly. If the rolling of her eyes could move a wagon, they’d be in Erebor within the hour.

“Fault!” Thorin hissed through clenched teeth. “This is all your fault! We would have been peacefully camped in the woods if it weren’t for your delicate constitution.”

“Oh, I’m _sorry_. If the availability of a bath, a full belly and a bed out of the rain makes you uncomfortable, then I offer my _humblest_ apologies.” The moment the words left her mouth, Bilbo wanted nothing more than to catch them back again. Thorin jerked back, his face going tight. Like the dragon they were after, he inhaled in preparation to deliver a deadly roar.

_“Ahem.”_

Normally, when someone clears their throat it is quite unremarkable – a gentle cough. When someone carefully enunciates the onomatopoeia for the action, it demands attention. As one, Bilbo and Thorin whirled towards the interruption. Neither was willing to concede, but both were startled into civility by the sudden recollection that they were being observed.

There, seated on the window next to one of the beds, was Nori. He was lounging as if he had been watching some sort of street theatre. He smirked, his eyes darting between the two, assessing. When he spoke, his voice was like rum-spiked molasses. “I’m so sorry to interrupt your majesty and your burglership, but we have a problem. Or would you prefer I tell your audience instead?” He gestured behind them with a negligent hand-wave, acknowledging the gaggle of dwarves frozen just inside the doorway.

Bilbo spun around immediately, her cheeks instantly flaming with mortification at seeing the collection of Durins, nephews and cousins (minus Oin and Gloin, who were sharing a small room down the passage) standing at the door. Thorin simply tossed back his dark mane, lifted his chin and assumed a regal air of calm civility.

Balin, who took his role as Thorin’s right hand seriously, gently reprimanded the lads for standing in the doorway like stumps and keeping their elders from their beds. The tension broke as Kili immediately accused Fili of setting a poor example, and a small scuffle broke out. Balin threw a small, conspiratorial smile at Bilbo as he shuffled past, neatly snapping the thread of vitriol strung between his King and the fussy little hobbit. He moved to his bed near the fire and sat down, grateful to be off his feet and more grateful still for the semi-soft mattress beneath him. Such comforts would be a fond dream for the foreseeable future.

Fili and Kili, fighting now over who had worse manners, were a tangle of boots and elbows that rolled back towards the door. Dwalin had had enough of the fray – a sharp shove later the two were tumbling out into the hallway, the door snapping smartly closed in their wake. Instantly there was an indignant demand to be let back in to see the outcome of the argument between their uncle and Mr Baggins.

Nori left his catlike sprawl on the window ledge, slunk into the room like a marauding tomcat, and stretched himself out against the headboard of the nearest bed.

“That’s mine.” The bass rumble from the far side of the room didn’t even make him blink. Instead, he eyed Dwalin and learned back deliberately, lounging now. He wriggled ostentatiously against the pillows, rubbing the scent of his leathers into the fabric, smirking at the guard throughout. “I’ll make way for your precious feet and tender bottom as soon as I’ve delivered the news to our king.”

His tone was conciliatory, even mildly flirtatious; he enjoyed knowing that the guard didn’t want him anywhere near his sheets. Nori’d offered before, back in the Blue Mountains, more than happy to share a tumble to keep from the gaol. Or on the way to the gaol. Or in the gaol. Rejection hadn’t come often to this Ri’s life, and each snub from the hulking warrior had stung. Dwalin’s tongue could leave wounds fully as nasty and slow to heal as a rusty dagger.

He angled back to Thorin, casual in his posture, but the thief’s mood had shifted and it showed in the slight tension around his eyes. He glanced sideways at Bilbo, not sure if it was a good idea to have the hobbit present when he brought this matter up with his king.

Thorin hadn’t moved. In truth he didn’t seem to have noticed the increasing displeasure of his large friend and bodyguard at so much as being in the same room as the light-fingered Ri. Or perhaps he didn’t want to remark on Dwalin’s discomfort, stirred as it was by someone so lovely but none the less so very inappropriate.

Bilbo caught Nori’s swift glance and took it for what it was: a ticket to leave. She tugged at her sleeves and sniffed disdainfully in lieu of swearing to end the conversation with Thorin _bloody_ Oakenshield. “Well, I’ll leave you to your discussion, then, for the evening. It’s time and past time that I found my bed.”

Before she had taken two steps to the door she was brought up fast as Thorin reached out, put his arm around her waist and swung her right back around into the middle of the room. “You are not going anywhere. You are going to stay right here and go to sleep.” He pulled her close into himself, her toes almost leaving the ground.  “And if you try and take so much as one step out of my sight and go looking for trouble, I’m going to lash you to the bloody bed!”

Bilbo tried to calm her galloping pulse and remind herself that she was a mature hobbit and far past the age where such… experimentation… as his words immediately brought to mind were appropriate any longer. She forced herself to think of every stodgy uncle, disapproving aunt and the superior, simpering smirks of various relatives. She scraped together every ounce of dignity and gravitas to which her status as the Scion of the Baggins clan entitled her.

“Such a crude demand is not worth the dignity of a response.”

He pulled back and said with mock-relief “at last! Silence! So you do know what it is.”

Under the astonished eyes of the others in the room, they seemed to be gearing up to get into it again. Balin was almost gaping at Thorin, who – even with his hot, ready temper – was known for his sense of decorum and his constant, almost painful awareness of his speech and actions. This rabid stubbornness he seemed to have developed with getting the last word in with the hobbit was… unprecedented.

Thankfully Nori cut in at this point. As amusing as it was to see the high and mighty King Under the Mountain lose his cool over a disobedient burglar, he did not want to spend the night playing referee. “Bandits. Planning to jump us. Probably once we cross the river.”

Thorin froze. Even the hobbit seemed stunned to silence for real this time. “How came you by this knowledge?”

Nori shrugged. “Instinct. I’m familiar with the type.”

Dwalin interjected, scoffing. “I’ll bet.”

Ignoring him, Nori continued as if the interruption hadn’t occurred. “Also, they were very intent on our little friend here paying for the drinks. And for the food, the stabling for thirteen ponies and for four rooms. I heard enough of their talk; frankly we make a good enough target. I can go and make sure, but at this point it’d be a formality. They’re all but certain to catch us at the bridge tomorrow. They definitely had friends who headed after them for a sudden, early night.”

Thorin snapped his head around and glared daggers at the halfling and raised an accusatory finger. “This is entirely, wholly and unquestionably your fault.”

“Remove your finger from my face,” came the measured reply. Bilbo’s expression was cooling rapidly on the room’s atmosphere.

Thorin mostly ignored him. He strode to the door, which Dwalin had been holding shut against the importunings of the young princes, and unceremoniously flung it open. “You!” he barked, pointing at Fili. “Go tell Bifur he’s spending the night in the hobbit’s room. Tell him to take his boar spear and to feel free to greet any night-time guests warmly.” Fili hesitated, glancing uncertainly between his brother and his uncle until he noticed that Thorin was looking pointedly in his direction. Slinking towards the stairway, he went to deliver the message.

“And where, precisely, am I supposed to sleep?” Although she wasn’t eager to hear the answer, Bilbo asked anyway. There was a reason she had reserved the tiny, hobbit-sized room. It was her last chance to truly rest for who knows how long, and she had _ladies’ business_ to attend to. She couldn’t very well unbind her breasts and change her undergarments in front of a bunch of leering louts.

Thorin didn’t even pause before answering. “Here. Right bloody here. Dwalin or Balin can take Bifur’s bed. You aren’t going anywhere, do you hear me?” Every word of his last sentence was punctuated by his finger making short stabs at Bilbo’s eyes, each one closer than the last.

“I told you to get your finger from my face,” Bilbo snarled.

Thorin ignored the cheeky halfling. Looking to Nori, he began running the pieces together in his mind, searching for a way out. The gates were sealed until dawn, so they couldn’t sneak out of the village early. An ambush meant that the bandits would need to get ahead of them, unless they left at the same time, not following so much as keeping pace. They could follow as long as they liked and strike when the dwarves were least secure. _Drek!_ They could double back, find another way across the river... but the hobbit had been adamant; this was the only crossing point for days. The bandits almost assuredly knew this land better then they, and would find them regardless. Thorin frowned. True, they were thirteen plus the grocer but he didn’t want to risk running into tangles and skirmishes around every mile marker. Any fight, no matter how small, would cost them in time, injuries or worse.

A sharp pain jolted his finger and Thorin jerked his hand back, hissing in shock.

Bilbo had leaned forward and summarily bitten the offending digit. She didn’t manage to break through skin; he was a dwarf after all, and had skin as tough as the hide of an old farm bull. Still, it was the best way to teach errant fauntlings the dangers of pointing at people.

Thorin was flabbergasted. He stared, disbelieving, at his finger and the small indentations there. Stunned, he looked up only to be met by a cool gaze. “Don’t put fingers in people’s faces.”

For a heartbeat the room was silent. Not one person there could quite comprehend what had just happened. The actuality of it was clear: the hobbit had bitten Thorin’s finger. What they struggled with was that the _hobbit_ had _bitten_ Thorin’s finger. The polite, punctilious halfling had laid… his teeth on royalty.

Dwalin gave a bellowing laugh and Nori snorted, looking aside in a poor attempt to hide his snickering. Balin smiled wryly and shook his head. Kili winced and reached up reflexively to protect his ears.

“You bit me!” Thorin’s outrage was apparent, and only grew as it seemed to cause his relatives even more amusement. “Don’t put your fingers where they don’t belong, then,” the thrice-damned halfling snipped in reply.

Her brain caught up to her, and so did the salt and bitter splash of ale lingering on her tongue. Bilbo sat down hard on the bed behind her. She didn’t know who’s it was, but she was done with this whole debacle. She would be sleeping around the dwarves for some time; she might as well accept her fate and get used to it. She was going to sleep, ill-mannered kings and thieving footpads be damned.

Thorin watched the hobbit settle on his bed, clearly going to sleep regardless of the troubles that waited for them on the road barely a stone’s throw away. He lay determinedly still, intent on ignoring the dwarves.  

Seeing their king’s stern composure return, the mirth died into silence. Thorin’s thoughts swam but he couldn’t think of a way to get ahead of the bandits without falling even further behind an already tight schedule.

“What now then?” Dwalin asked. “We fight?”

Balin shook his white head sadly. “No choice. Bilbo made it clear...”

Bilbo’s head jerked up. It was the first time that one of the dwarves had used her name so casually. Hearing the eldest dwarf’s despondent tone, a surge of guilt raced through her for putting them in this position. She should have given the over money later, more conservatively. Should have let the dwarves pay their own shot; should have gone to a different inn. Something, anything, to not have caused this problem. She tried, with far less strategy than the dwarves were discussing, to find them a way out or past or around.

“…this is the only way to cross the river safely. And with the ponies we can’t swim it…”

“We’re stuck.” Kili surmised, looking from one grim face to the next.

An idea crept into her head as she turned Balin’s words over in her mind. Twisted strands of the most foolish plan Bilbo had ever had in her life came together into a lifeline and before common sense could reassert itself, the Took side of her brain spoke up. Even as she opened her mouth her blood seemed to chill right into her core and a thousand childhood horror stories rose up like ghosts.

“Actually…” Bilbo bit her lip and admitted grudgingly “there _is_ another way.”


End file.
